Mission Im-possum-ble
by dljensengirl88
Summary: The Winchesters are facing true evil – a nosy old neighbor with a rubber neck… WARNING: This is a discipline fic.
1. Chapter 1

**This story was the idea of my lovely friend wise_old_crone over on LJ. She wanted to do a birthday fic for another friend, then, in her own words, "I started and then I got stuck." That's when she asked me if I'd like to join her and I was thrilled to pitch in. I've never co-written with anyone before and I found out I LOVED it! Of course it helps that we are alike and different in just the right ways. I can appreciate that chemistry isn't found with everyone. We added in the mega-beta-reading of another LJ friend, remisfriend26, to round out the trio. I then asked wise_old_crone if I could post this on my page here when we were done and she agreed. I didn't want you all to miss out on a story I came to love writing and boy did we write! This ain't gonna be a short one, my fellow community members. It was a 7-parter. Then we added an epilogue. Hopefully you will enjoy.**

Game Boys were awesome. As in really, _really_ awesome. Or so Dean Winchester thought. Of course, his Dad would never buy him one; not in a million years. Not when there was physical exercise that could keep a growing boy entertained and out of trouble.

" 'Entertained' my ass," Dean thought as he eyed his prized possession. Okay, so _technically_ it wasn't _his_ possession; the Game Boy belonged to his classmate Noah. Noah's family didn't own just ONE Game Boy, no - there were four boys, and every boy had _his own_. Dean's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he heard that. Noah was a spindly little thing, but he and Dean got partnered up for a biology project and Dean really liked the guy. He was quiet, but when he did decide to talk, boy did he ever nail an issue precisely on the head.

Noah said it was because he was the runt of the family. With three bigger brothers demanding all the attention at the dinner table, nobody paid much attention to him. So he'd learnt early on to think first and talk later.

"My turn," Sammy piped up. He crawled onto the sofa next to Dean and held his hands out expectantly. He smelt minty-fresh like toothpaste, was in his Elmo pajamas and smiled up at Dean with those big puppy eyes Dean could never resist.

"Okay, squirt, but this is your last game. I've already let you stay up past your bedtime, so don't give me a hard time or I'm not gonna share tomorrow, okay?"

"But Deaaaan!" the nine-year-old began to wail, "that's not _fair_!"

Dean had just been about to hand the electronic gadget over to his brother, but now held it up and out of the little guy's reach. "Is that what you'd say if Dad was here?"

Sammy's lip protruded in a pout. John was away on a trip, and had been gone for the past two nights. The boys were expecting him home the next day, so if Dean told him Sam had acted up, he'd be cross for sure. He bit down on his lower lip, thinking. He really didn't want to go to bed, but he didn't want to get into trouble, either. He eyed his brother suspiciously. "No, but Dad's not here, so-"

"Rules still apply, short stuff." Dean didn't negotiate with Sammy over things like bedtime very often, but he had to admit the Game Boy _was_ an exception. Usually, the only reason they had for staying up late was because they were full of energy and not tired after having been cooped up inside all day or because they were in the middle of a game. Dad had roasted Dean's butt one time too often for letting Sammy stay up late and watch TV that wasn't age-appropriate. So they basically just watched cartoons until Sammy had to go to bed. It was just safer that way.

The look on Sammy's face when Dean declared it was bedtime was as sad as if Dean had just cancelled Christmas. It really _was_ more fun playing _Super Mario World_ with his brother. The small fry was a natural.

"Okay, you can stay up a half hour longer, but..." Dean held the device closer to Sammy but refused to let go until his little brother was looking up at him with his big brown eyes, "...don't tell Dad I let you stay up past your bedtime."

Sammy shook his head no and sent his hair flying. "I won't, Dean, I promise."

"Not even if you are mad at me, right? I don't need another lecture from Dad, you hear me?"

Sammy's small hands stayed clutched around the Game Boy, but his cheeks blushed a soft pink. Last time Dad had been away on a "business" trip - which they were to say if anyone got close enough to ask - Dean had waited till the very last minute to do his chores, although he'd told their Dad on the phone they were done a lot sooner. Sammy had gotten upset after Dean told Dad Sam's whole class had gotten detention, and Sam had retaliated by ratting Dean out. John had _not_ been impressed. The lecture he'd given Dean had left the boy's ears ringing for an hour afterwards and Dean had been really pissed off with Sam.

"I said I'm sorry, Dean. You don't have to bring it up all the time."

"So we're clear?" Dean needed Sammy to verbally seal their deal. He could see Sammy was getting upset, so he flashed him a winning smile.

In a flash, Sammy's face lit up and he nodded his head vigorously. "Not a word to Dad!" He gave a delighted giggle as Dean released his hold on the device and ruffled his hair.

"That's m'boy," Dean said as he leant closer to have a better view of the small screen and Mario was on his merry way.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

By 11:45 p.m., Dean felt completely knackered. Of course he'd sent Sammy off to bed way past the agreed half hour, but they'd really made some great progress together. They'd collected a huge amount of coins and the game was really starting to get challenging. Dean eyed his wristwatch wearily. He _could_ go to bed; he'd still catch enough hours of shut-eye to be fit for school tomorrow if he went now.

Or…

Well… Or, he _could_ have a Coke, ride the sugar rush and see if he couldn't beat this fugly. He was a little annoyed that Sam was pretty much kicking his butt in this game and if he didn't want to embarrass himself the next day, he'd really have to get better. Luigi was _not_ supposed to be better than Mario, right? Right.

Basically, Dean _owed_ it to Mario to stay up and practice. So he did.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Hey! You there!"

John Winchester suppressed a sigh. He'd just pulled up inside the Impala in front of his rented home after being away on a long hunt. He longed for a shower, a beer and to be with his boys. But before he'd even managed to get his other leg all the way out of the car, he heard his neighbour's call. It was way too loud to ignore, considering that it basically ricocheted all the way down the street, so John really had no choice but to sigh deep, turn and face her.

"How'd you do, Mrs. Donnelly?" John asked pleasantly as he approached the fence.

"Oh, this isn't about me," the old lady replied brusquely from over her side of the fence. "We do need to talk about that son of yours!" She punctuated her point with a bony finger in John's direction, forcing John to reconsider coming closer.

_Great. What have those two miscreants gotten themselves into this time?_ John wondered as he straightened up at the accusation and moved closer to place his forearms on the conjoined fence in an effort to disarm the combative old woman. "Which one?" he asked, trying to remain casual. The boys had been whining at him about their next door neighbour pretty much since the moment they settled down in this little crap-hole of a town. The only time John had heard more complaining was whenever the old lady complained about his boys. They were loud; they were sneaky; they'd been peeping into her windows (which he highly doubted); they were noisy when they took out the trash; she heard bad language; was the little one a boy or a girl – with all that hair, she sure couldn't tell; was the taller one a juvenile delinquent – the leather jacket sure implied it. The list didn't have an end, only an addendum.

In John's estimation, Mrs. Donnelly must have been an army wife; otherwise he could not explain her uncanny repertoire of tactical attack manoeuvres. No matter what the Winchesters did, especially the younger ones, she knew about it one second later and did not hesitate to make sure John Winchester knew about it the second after that. The boys suspected her one-eyed cat communicated with her in one form or other. John had even given it a serious passing thought, then decided that was nonsense. That said, she sure was good. And sometimes she came in handy.

This time, Mrs Donnelly, the withered old coot, had caught sight of Dean hanging outside on their front steps – during school hours. She had seen it as her duty to pounce on John and tattle before the man had half a chance to get out of the Impala.

"I could have called a truant officer, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. I thank you for not doing that and telling me instead."

"I used to work at that school. Twenty-five years I gave those ungrateful brats. Always thinking they could pull one over on us adults, as if we couldn't possibly have a clue what they're up to. There's nothing new under the sun, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. That's true," John replied, looking for an opening to stop her tirade.

"You'd think they'd invented playing hooky! But I keep telling them idle hands are the devil's playthings."

"Uh huh." John wasn't sure how much more he could take himself. It was a wonder the kids hadn't tarred and feathered her long ago.

"And your boy is probably one of the worst of the lot!" she bellowed.

"Well, now, Mrs. Donnelly, I seriously doubt…"

"Don't tell me!" she interjected. "I saw him out there listening to his infernal music, drinking something that I could swear was not legal for his age. What are you teaching those boys, Mr. Winchester? We lead by example!"

And now John was getting more than aggravated, not so much at the nosey old bitty next door, but at Dean for seemingly blatantly defying his orders to toe the line, whether John was present or not, because they did not need unwanted attention - -like _this _unwanted attention. Was he trying to bring child protective services banging on their door?

"And you," she continued. John shook himself out of his thoughts as her latest charge commanded his attention.

"Me, ma'am?"

"Yes you! I went over there to tell you about that wild child of yours, but every time I did, you couldn't even be bothered to come to the door. I kept getting excuse after excuse from that long-haired boygirl who can't be bothered to speak up!"

"Mrs. Donnelly, I work some pretty long hours…"

"Excuses, excuses. It's no wonder this generation is going to pot." It was then Mrs. Donnelly decided her best congregation was herself, so she continued to preach about the evils of the younger generation and their lax parents as she waved off John Winchester and turned to shuffle back into her well-worn home, clearly in as much need for care as her well-worn lawn.

"Yes, right, well ok then, Mrs. Donnelly," John called to the oblivious woman as she continued her rant inside her own back door, closing it firmly behind her. John closed his eyes and pulled a hand down his tired face as he tried to decide what was more pressing - rest or dealing with Dean for what was probably a slightly trumped up offense. Or, for his sake, it had better _not_ be the whole story. If it was, Dean would regret putting him in this position. That was for sure.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Dean! Front and center!"

Dean and Sam looked up from the Game Boy they were still borrowing and exchanged panicked glances. Shit, _that_ tone never bode well for their butts. "Hide it," Dean whispered to Sammy before he scrambled to hustle down the stairs and stand at attention before his Dad - wherever the hell _he'd_ just come from.

"Sir?" Dean said as he skidded to a halt in front of John in their kitchen. "I didn't know you were home already. How did it go?" John wouldn't be deterred by the innocent look on his son's face.

"We'll get to that later," he replied. John reached out and put a hand on the kid's forehead. He didn't seem hot or feverish, and he didn't look it, either. Hmm. "How was school today, kiddo?" John asked, curious to hear Dean's reply.

Dean blinked his eyes twice. A tell-tale sign that he was about to tell his father a big fat lie. Dean hesitated for a moment and licked his lips nervously. _Shit, how the __**hell**__ had he found out so soon?_

John raised his eyebrows warningly and Dean _knew_ he was busted. Lying would just make things so much worse. He swallowed. "I didn't go, sir." Seeing John's frown he quickly licked his lips again, mouth dry as parchment. "Well, that's not quite true," he quickly amended. "I _did_ drop Sammy off at his school, sir. But, uhm… I didn't get much sleep and, uhm, I woke up with a headache from hell and, uhm…" he trailed off, looking up at his father questioningly. He'd presented John with all the facts, well, the important ones anyway, so basically now he had to wait for John to make the next move.

"Were you going to tell me about this, Dean, or were you planning on forging my signat-"

"Hell no!" Dean exclaimed loudly, panic crossing his mind. He instinctively took a step back and glowered up at John. "You don't _always_ have to assume the worst of me, you know?" He couldn't help it, but suddenly hot, angry tears began welling up in his eyes. Dad could be such a _jerk_ at times.

"Alright, son, just calm down," John said placatingly, putting both hands on Dean's shoulders. "Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I knew you'd be home by tonight," Dean shot back defensively.

"Okay. Settle down. You don't _seem_ sick. Any reason why you couldn't sleep?"

Dean blushed and scuffed the floor with the toe of his boot. "Um…"

At this moment Sam made an entrance by rushing over and wrapping his arms around John's waist. "You're home!" Sam said with delight.

Glad for the diversion, Dean set his mind to work. He had to come up with a good excuse, and fast. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking by hanging out in the open where old women with nothing better to do could see him. At first he'd just gone home and crashed, but after he'd woken up a couple of hours later, he couldn't get back to sleep. Well, of course he could always play Super Mario, but truth be told, he felt immensely guilty. Clearly, his sleep-deprived mind and the knot in his stomach hadn't helped to surmise that boys who ditch school had best stay in the house until school was over for the day.

"Hey, kiddo!" John smiled down at his baby boy and ran his hand through his hair. "You need a haircut."

"You need to shave," Sammy quipped back, looking at his dad's scruff.

John ruefully scratched his cheek. "Guess we've both got a point, eh buddy?"

Seeing Sammy and his Dad interact so playfully almost broke Dean's heart. He was really glad his old man was home again and he _really_ didn't want him to be mad. But he didn't want to lie to him, either. With a sigh he decided to come clean. Set a good example for Sammy, or whatever.

"Um, I didn't get enough sleep 'cause I was up all night playing with a Game Boy, sir."

"Excuse me?" John looked up at his older son, but continued hugging his younger.

"Um," Dean knew his Dad hated hedging, but just spilling out the truth wasn't that easy, either. Nervously, he scratched the back of his head before he continued. "Noah, from school, he lent me his Game Boy and, um, I…" Dean trailed off, not sure how far down he'd dug his own grave already.

John gave a sigh of his own. He looked down at Sammy. "But _you_ did get enough sleep, right?" He felt Sammy's head nod, but the kid buried his face in his father's shirt. Like _that_ was ever a good sign.

"Guess I should have been here to send you to bed, hm?" John asked quietly, thinking.

Dean shrugged, not sure how to answer that one. He didn't want to admit he _needed_ his Dad around for stuff like that - after all, he should be old enough to know when to go to bed himself. Plus, bedtimes weren't negotiable in the Winchester household. Dad gave the orders and the boys had better heed them… or else.

"See - that's _exactly_ why I didn't want one of those damned things in the house in the first place." John scowled hard at Dean and placed his hand on Sammy's head, tilting it up, so he could see him, too. "Did you two get in any fights over it?"

"No, sir," the two boys replied in unison.

"Not even a small scuffle?" John eyed his boys suspiciously.

"Dean _always_ shares; he's the best!" Sammy smiled up at John happily.

"Sammy, why don't you go on to your room for a little while. I'm sure there's some homework you could be doing?"

"No, sir," was Sam's quick reply before he noticed John's stern expression directed at Dean. "Um, well, I do have a math test on Monday. I can go study." Sam knew at this point John was only half listening. He glanced over at Dean, who would only look at the floor, and back up at John who was still distractedly smoothing Sam's hair as he watched the guilt pouring off his older son. "So, yeah," Sam finished. "I'll go study."

"Good boy," John replied, releasing Sam but never taking his eyes off Dean. Sam nodded, knowing no one was particularly focused on him now. But he stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way past Dean with a brush of his arm against his older brother's in a show of silent solidarity that Dean recognized but could not acknowledge lest John catch on to their code.

"What were you thinking," John asked once Sam had returned up the stairs and loudly closed his door. "You know I count on you to watch out for things here when I am away. I can't have the neighbors paying so much attention to us, Dean."

"Mrs. Donnelly is just a nosey old woman, Dad. It's like she's the neighborhood cop. I wasn't bothering nobody. It's not fair!" Dean's voice rose like he wanted to argue for the rights of teenage boys everywhere who had Big Brother living next door. But John's silent look in reply caused Dean to think better of himself. He lowered his voice. "But I'm sorry, Dad, I don't know what I was thinking. I was just so tired...I wasn't using my head."

"You're damn right, Dean," John agreed. He sighed and leaned back against the counter behind him, crossing his arms as he considered the disobedient boy before him. He knew he put a lot on Dean. He knew that ultimately it was his job to make sure both his boys got the rest and education they needed. He knew boys loved video games and that their lives just didn't allow them to do things any differently than they were already doing it. Mrs. Donnelly _was_ a royal pain in the ass - good intentions or not - and so this time, he would grant clemency.

"Okay, Dean, listen up. Because you decided to be honest with me, I'll cut you some slack."

Dean looked up at him hopefully. After John had dismissed Sammy so quickly, Dean's heart had pretty much slid down to his socks.

"Here's the deal. Instead of serving time over my knee or in your room..." John glared pointedly at Dean. "...you can do some 'community service'."

"And you're the 'community', right?" Dean ran a hand through his hair. Sometimes Dad's punishment chores were worse than being in lockdown, so he eyed him suspiciously. John seemed deep in thought.

"Did you slack off on any other chores while I was away?" John had been gone since Monday morning; it was Thursday now, so plenty of time for the boys to be idle.

"No sir," Dean was quick to reply. "I only got the Game Boy yesterday and I've done all my chores - laundry's done, beds are changed, I emptied the fridge, and yes - before you ask - I did get those leaves out of the rain gutter on the roof just like you told me to, and-" Dean saw the look dawning on his Dad's face and stopped abruptly. His shoulders slumped and face fell. "You forgot, didn't you?"

John didn't need to answer as the look on his face spoke volumes. He'd made a deal with Dean - if he managed not to slack off on any of his chores for three weeks, he'd teach him to shoot a crossbow. So far, they'd only covered handguns and Dean had taken to those like a duck to water. He was a natural; he loved the adrenaline kick of it and John also knew he liked spending time with his old man. Something he'd never known himself, seeing as the bastard had up and left, so John _did_ try to spend as much quality time with his kids as he could. That hadn't been much lately, not with the lifestyle they led with the hunting and moving and all that.

"We'll do it next weekend, kiddo. I really need to head back out to-" John started to say, but he could hardly believe what happened next.

"Screw you!" Dean yelled at him. From the hurt in his eyes, it was clear to John that he'd disappointed his champ, and he was sorry; really, he was, but that did _not_ mean that behaviour like that was acceptable.

"Dean." That one warning bark was usually enough to get the boy to toe the line. But clearly, not today.

Dean squared his shoulders and looked up at him with defiance. "You _always_ pull this kind of crap!" he spat angrily. He didn't care that a moment ago he was in trouble for skipping school. So what?

John moved closer, but Dean stepped back. Like two duellists they sized each other up in the rather small kitchen. "I know you're upset, Dean, but I think you're forgetting who you're talking to here, kiddo."

"I'm talking to the jackass who had me working my butt off for the last three weeks and never intended to give me squat in return."

John inhaled, taken aback by the viciousness in his son. It was extreme, even for a disappointed Dean. But now he was crossing a line he wouldn't be able to come back from. "Are you out of your mind, boy?" John growled menacingly. He grabbed Dean's upper arm and pulled the brat close, making sure he had all his attention. "How _dare_ you speak to me like that!"

Dean lost his balance momentarily as he was pulled up on his tiptoes. "Let GO!" he spat angrily, trying to pull free.

"Dean! Knock it off! That's an order!" John tried hard not to smack his kids when he was angry, but right now his palm was just _itching_ to connect with Dean's butt. Instead, he let one arm hang casually by his side and pulled the brat effortlessly closer with the other.

"Let… Lemme…" Dean was losing ground fast here, but he was just too pissed off to care.  
"Stand down!" John ordered in his no-nonsense tone. "I don't know what the _hell_ has gotten into you, but I'm pretty sure a sound thrashing will help you to remember your manners."

"But YOU'RE the one, who-"

"Played hooky?" John shot back, trying hard to keep his calm. "Disobeyed my direct orders?"

"You wouldn't even know about that if it wasn't for the old bitch next door!" Dean cussed back, still trying with all his might to break his father's iron grip on him. To no avail.

John straightened, his voice suddenly eerily calm. "One." John caught Dean's free arm and easily held his wrist up high. Dean scowled up at him fiercely, too angry to heed the warning in his father's tone.

"Two." By this time John felt quite worked up himself. This was _not_ the kind of welcome he'd been looking forward to.

"Fine. Whatever!" Dean spat at him petulantly, but he did stop trying to pull free.

John didn't even consider letting him go now, though. He scrutinized him carefully - the dark rings under his eyes, the flash of anger staring back at him, and the penny dropped. "_That_ is precisely why I _told_ you to be in bed on time. You're too old to be having a damned temper tantrum because I wasn't here to make sure you take a _nap_."

Dean looked up at him indignantly. "I'm not… _five_..."

"Then stop acting like it."

Dean bristled at the reprimand, but just _couldn't_ convince himself to back down. He _hated_ feeling trapped; hated it with a vengeance and his father _knew_ this, so why wasn't he letting go? Dean tried again to tug his hand free, but he was only pulled up higher. He kicked out in frustration and managed to land a good one against John's shin.

"And _that's_ three, buddy boy," John spat, now also at the end of his tether. He moved them both forward a step or two so he could open a kitchen drawer. He reached inside and retrieved a sturdy wooden spatula.

Dean's green eyes widened in horror as realization hit him. "_Seriously?_ No! Friggin… NO!" He tried to bat John off with his free hand, locked his knees straight like a horse and tried to pull away like that, or at least make it harder for his father to manhandle him.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "You _really_ think you're not in enough trouble, boy?"

Dean just stared back at him, clearly backed up against a wall, but the spunk hadn't left him yet. John wasted no time propping his leg up on a rung of one of the kitchen chairs and hauling the squirming kid over his muscular thigh. He grabbed him by the back of his pants, so the fabric was snugly stretched over his well-presented butt, and secured his kid's back with his strong elbow. The spatula was broad enough to cover a decent part of Dean's butt - pretty much like the palm of John's hand, but this way he wouldn't be feeling the sting himself. The brat's reaction to the spanking, which John began without further ado, was instant.

"Yeow!" Dean hollered, as the first resounding smack crashed against his behind. He honestly couldn't remember being in _this_ position before, and he _really_ didn't like it. It was terrible - his feet had no ground to stand on, and he just _hung_ there, like a sheet in the wind, with no chance whatsoever of protecting himself from the fiery onslaught. His jeans offered very little protection, or so it seemed, and the wooden spatula hurt. _A lot._

"Ow! Ow! Not so hard!" the teen yipped and squealed in discomfort and he felt utterly ashamed at how _fast_ the tears were flowing. Of course, it _really_ wasn't helping that his Dad had decided to rapidly pepper his sit-spots right from the start, to set the proper "tone."

"Settle down, kid. You know what happens when I reach three," John said matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing something everyday - like laying down the salt lines and locking the doors.

"Put me down, Dad, please - put me down," Dean was begging in no time. This position was _ridiculous!_ Dean was pretty lanky for his age, but he really didn't know how his Dad still managed to handle him like a rag doll. It also didn't make the teen feel any less frustrated right now, to be quite honest, but he _did_ want that wicked burn to stop.

"Quiet," John said uncompassionately as he continued to apply wood to butt.

Dean reached back and clutched John's sleeve. "Please, Dad… just not like this…" he tried to say more, but hollered loudly instead as the spatula smacked down on the back of his thighs. He heard his voice hitch as the pain rose above his endurance level and the first sob escaped his lips.

John noticed this with satisfaction. The kid's legs were kicking hard now, but it did little to shift his position. Still, the boy ought to know better. "Keep your legs still."

"I can't, Dad," Dean sniffed miserably, "It's too hard."

"It's exactly as hard as you deserve, you hear me?" John watched as Dean hiccuped and tried to get his breathing back under control. His hand was still holding on tight to John's shirt-cuff, and he could see his white knuckles standing out. Dean gulped down air but nodded contritely.

"What happens when I reach three, Dean?" his father asked strictly.

"But it already hurts so much!" Dean wailed in dismay.

"Tough," John commented drily. "Now answer the question."

"I lose the pants,." Dean coughed, but quickly added, "But I've learnt my lesson, sir. Please..."

John snorted. "Oh, it's _way_ too early for that, m'boy. You really should know that by now." He tipped Dean forward a little more so the kid _had to_ cross his legs at the ankles to maintain his balance. With renewed vigour he smacked the spatula down on Dean's sit spots. Clearly, this was making an impression because John couldn't remember the last time the kid had been so vocal during a spanking.

"Are you done calling me names?" John asked as he momentarily paused to hear Dean's response. The kid had wrapped his arms round John's legs and his tears were dripping freely onto the linoleum floor.

Unable to speak, Dean nodded his head vigorously and stammered out, "Uh-huh."

"Excuse me?" John demanded.

"I mean, yes sir. I'm done, sir."

"And are you done with the cussing?" John tapped Dean's butt lightly with the wooden implement.

Dean nodded again and tried to wipe the tears away with his sleeve.

"I can't hear you, son."

Dean's stubbornness was fighting with his will to survive. "I'm done, sir. I'm sorry."

"Will I be getting any more of your attitude, or is it safe for me to put you down?"

Dean's mind raced. Of course he didn't _like_ where he was now, but if Dad was only going to put him down in order to take down his pants… well, then he'd probably be safer up here. But Dean knew that was foolish, so he opted for his only choice. "I'll be good," he whispered softly, dreading what would happen next.

"Uh-huh," John grunted as he moved his leg down from the chair. His damned thigh was about ready to kill him - Dean definitely wasn't a small kid anymore. He released his hold on the boy, who straightened up and instantly reached back with two hands and tried to rub some of the sting from his butt.

John pulled the chair further out from under the table, turned it to face the other way, and sat down. He placed the spatula on the table and unbuttoned his shirt cuff. He started to roll up his right sleeve and studied Dean's face while the kid meticulously tried to avoid meeting his eyes. John cleared his throat expectantly.

For a brief moment, Dean had hoped Dad had taken pity on him and would let him off without part two of this neverending spanking. But John Winchester was not known for letting up until the point was made. Dean bit his lip nervously, moving his hands to his front as he started to undo his jeans. His hands were shaking, which was unusual for him, but he _really_ didn't want to drop trou.

"Quit stalling." John's voice was a deep growl.

Dean was a whirl of emotions. He was embarrassed to be punished like a little kid and so soon after Dad had gotten home. At the back of his mind he imagined Sammy must have heard the whole thing from before and now there was more coming, so that added to the shame he was feeling. Of course he was also feeling the sting of the spatula, though he was trying not to. On top of all that, the sadness he felt from his father's disappointment magnified the pain. But there was also his own disappointment at yet another broken promise, which was starting to rise to the surface again, bringing with it an onslaught of fresh tears. He had only wanted to spend time with his dad. It was one of the few times he felt like he had all of John's attention and he reveled in the pride his dad would lavish on him whenever he performed as expected, usually better than expected. Why did it all have to go to shit so fast?

"I don't have all day, Dean."

Dean nodded but sped up only a little. "Yes, sir," was his quiet reply.

John wasn't sure how they had gotten here, but he knew they needed to get through it quickly. "Let's get this finished, son."

Dean stepped to his father's side and finally released his loosened jeans. Licking his lips, he breathed deep, trying to contain the coming tears as he prepared for what was hopefully the last of this particular punishment. John wasted no time grabbing his wrist and pulling the boy over his waiting knees, adjusting him on his lap before he pulled down the boy's underwear. On the bare was what you earned when John got to three. No exceptions. No age limits.

Dean closed his eyes and lowered his head as much as he could, as if it could somehow hide him from the pain to come. He heard a clatter on the floor, his eyes flying open in question, but he didn't have to wait long to learn his dad had dropped the spatula and opted for the personal touch now. Dean yelled in expected surprise when John's hand connected with his already very sore backside. Dean thought he had gotten his emotions under control for this, but that first swat quickly re-opened the floodgates and Dean was helpless to control it.

John laid into him with smack after punishing smack, Dean's yelps punctuating each blow, his kicks forceful enough to dislodge the jeans around his ankles. "I have to be able to trust you while I am away, Dean," John said as he took a second to relieve Dean and his hand. Dean could only gulp for air as he tried to respond with his expected, "yes, sir." The moment of reprieve gave him just enough time to bite his lip again as his dad's hand came down on one cheek, then the next, and back again, all in quick succession. Dean stifled a further outcry, pinching his lips together as tightly as he could and shutting his eyes in a futile attempt to block the pain.. He only hoped his dad would stop asking him questions so he could continue to try to contain his wails.

"This ends here, do you understand?" John slapped Dean's ass with as much force as he knew the boy could handle. Not really expecting a reply, he continued with the lesson. "I am the head of this family, whether I am standing in front of you or not, and you WILL obey me."

Dean whimpered and nodded his head, but did his best not to free the cries building up in his burning throat. "And you..." John landed another smack. "...are not giving…" Another smack. "...Mrs. Donnelly…" And another. "...any more reasons to pay me any more visits." Hard smack. That was it. Dean yelled out, unable to hold back the dam any longer. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes! Yes, Dad! Please!" Dean wailed. "I can't take anymore! I'm sorry, I swear I am!" Dean could only cry now like the little boy he felt like and he was too spent to even care. He laid on his father's lap and let the torrent of pain and sorrow and disappointment flow from him. It really was amazing how therapeutic crying could be too, though that was far from Dean's mind at this particular time. Later, he'd appreciated the weight of his lies and disobedience being lifted. For now, he was just hoping his dad would be done already.

And as if John could read his thoughts, Dean jumped as he felt his dad pull up his underwear and lay a careful hand on his back. But this time, the touch was gentle as John stroked his son's back, hoping to calm the boy before he lifted him up again. Once Dean recognized the touch for the consoling act it was, he felt free to relax and let loose the last of the pained cries that needed to escape. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

"Shhh," John soothed. He couldn't help but smile a little as he thought back to how easy it had been to console Dean when he was a toddler. The boy had always easily found comfort in his father's arms, no matter what was wrong. Of course this was back when life was satisfying and full of promise. Mary had been the main disciplinarian then, since she was a stay-at-home mom and frequently the target of Dean's youthful tantrums. Plus she never did take bad behavior from anyone, Dean or John. If Dean had found himself lashed by Mary's scolding tongue or worse, stung by a couple of quick taps on his backside, Dean would run to John who did his best to be the peacekeeper, giving both parties time to regain composure before taking Dean to apologize for whatever infraction he'd committed and promise to be good. It was easier then, when there were two of them to steer the ship. On his own, John could only do his best not to push his children away from him with his strict methods as he fought to simply keep them both alive while he sought his wife's killer. He'd have to make good on his promise. He knew that. But for now, Dean would need to comply.

Before long, Dean quieted and felt John begin to pull him back to standing. He couldn't look his dad in the eye just yet, as he worked to regain strength in his legs, sniffling with the occasional hitches in his breath making it hard to stand still.

"Hey, champ," Dean heard, his eyes caught by the white napkin waving in front of his nose. He took it for the call to truce that it was, biting his lip even further to squash the tears he could feel building again as he momentarily felt sorry for himself. He blew his nose and gave his dad a quiet "thanks" but still no eye contact.

"I believe you have something I need to confiscate?"

Dean sniffled again, blowing his nose more as he nodded. "Ye..yes, sir."

Not thinking and not wanting to face John any longer than he had to, Dean turned to hustle up the stairs to his and Sammy's room, wincing at the pain in his backside as he moved. John just shook his head, choosing not to remind Dean that he might want his pants back. Instead, he simply picked them up and followed his cowed son. Dean would probably want to change into something a little less abrasive anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Sammy jumped as he heard the door open behind him. He turned around in his seat and instantly let out a small squeak when he saw Dad's scowling face as he manoevered Dean through the open door, one hand firmly on his son's neck. His tough-as-nails big brother looked worse than Sammy could remember in a long while. His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed and he was still sniffling a little.

"Where is it?" John demanded to know as he looked directly at his youngest, challenging him to even _try_ to discuss the matter with Dean first.

Sammy's eyes widened in shock as he scurried to the other side of the room and went over to his sock drawer. Of course he knew without a doubt what Dad was referring to. He'd warned Dean _not_ to skip school, but would he listen? No, of course not! He handed the things over to his Dad, who passed them on to Dean.

"Get your backpack ready for school tomorrow, put those things in it, and leave it in my room. I think you've gotten into enough trouble over it for one day, hm?" John waited to hear Dean's "Yes, sir" before giving the boy's neck a firm squeeze and releasing him. He was still carrying Dean's pants and placed them neatly over the back of the chair Sammy had just vacated as Dean busied himself with his bag.

Sammy rummaged through his things, making sure he didn't miss any of the games or the charger. If Dad decided to check he didn't want to get caught with another clandestine object. When he was sure he was safe, he turned around to check on Dean and audibly gasped when he saw Dean's very red skin peeking out from below the seams of his underpants. "Holy cow!" Sammy couldn't help himself. It was like seeing a car crash - he just couldn't for the life of him look away.

"What the hell, Sammy?!" Dean cussed hotly, blinking back mortified tears. It wasn't bad enough that his butt hurt like the nine circles from hell. No, his baby brother had to make fun of him, too?

John knew both boys were naturally curious, and well, spankings _did_ have a certain fascination for boys of all ages, and Sammy was genuinely surprised, not mocking. But Dean was just too emotional right now to see that.

"I've never _seen_ it that red!" Sammy never did know when to keep his little mouth shut. He kept right on staring at Dean, as if expecting him to turn around again to offer him a better look.

"That's enough from you, Samuel," John intervened before things got out of hand. He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, but the stubborn kid tried to shrug him off as he glowered into his backpack and angrily wiped at his face. Fine, if encouragement didn't work, there was always door number two. John put just the right amount of bark behind his next words to make sure Dean didn't do anything stupid. "And you settle down. I've seen quite enough of your temper today."

"So, did _you_ behave yourself while I was away?" John asked his youngest, trying to distract his attention away from Dean's glowing butt. He strategically placed himself between his boys, offering Dean a modicum of privacy before the teen headed out the door with his backpack.

Sammy looked up at him sheepishly. "Uhm, almost, sir?"

John narrowed his eyes warningly. "Is _that_ how you were taught to answer a question, Samuel?"

Sammy stuffed his hands into his pockets and shook his bangs out of his forehead. "Uhm, no?"

"Do you need your butt warmed too, or do you think you can remember your manners?" John watched Dean move to the door but also kept his eyes on Sammy.

"I'm good." Sam looked up at his Dad nervously. If Dad had spanked Dean _that_ hard, surely he must have told him the truth, right? But Dean had also made him _promise_ not to rat him out, and he _did_ want Dean to trust him, but that might mean lying to their Dad. And if he already knew, well then… Fudge Sundae with a scoop of poo!

"Report, Samuel." John had the sneaking suspicion Dean wouldn't be the only one sporting a sore backside today.

Dean re-appeared in the doorway, without his backpack, but with a guilty look on his face. "He stayed up a half hour longer yesterday, sir."

"I see," John replied, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest. "So you _both_ deserve to be punished."

By this point Dean looked as if he might just throw up, and he hung his head as he sighed, waiting for John to announce his verdict. He honestly didn't think his poor butt could take any more punishment right now. Maybe Dad would just ground him until he was 40? Yeah, right, fat chance…

"Okay boys, here's the deal - tomorrow is Friday, so it's only a half-day of school. I want you to come straight home and start cleaning up the yard. I have a few things I need to do in town tomorrow, so by the time I come back I expect to see significant progress. I don't think I need to remind you of what happens if I don't. Is that understood?"

Two heads nodded in unison, accompanied by their standard, "Yes, sir."

"Alright then. Sammy, grab a book and settle down on the couch. Dean - you're in time-out. Go lie down until I say it's time to get up. I'm not in the mood for back talk from either of you, so get at it!"

Both boys hurried to obey.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Oh, Deaaan?" Sammy called, grabbing a large handful of leaves and stuffing them as far down into the huge garbage bag as they would go, which wasn't very far, as it was already pretty full.

"Forget it, twerp," came the reply. Not looking at his little brother, Dean continued to rack up what seemed like an entire forest's worth of dry leaves in their sorry excuse for a back yard. Of all the seasons, fall HAD to be the worst. It was as if Mother Nature got some kind of sadistic pleasure out of watching chastised kids clean up her mess only to shake more leaves loose the moment the kid finally finished.

Dean winced as he bent to scoop up the latest pile, trying to concentrate on the job he father had ordered them to do as well as focus on his brother's whiny voice in order to forget what had happened yesterday afternoon. Of course it had been difficult to forget when he he had spent half the day squirming in his seat in his classes. It was noticeable enough for at least one teacher to call him out in class and tell him if he couldn't stop being so antsy, she'd send him to the principal's office and he could explain himself there. That was the last thing he needed; Dad being called for something so trivial might unleash another torrent on his ass and he may as well walk around with one of those donuts for the next couple of weeks.

He was just grateful it was only half a day of school and no gym class. The backs of his thighs were still red. Some slight welts had arisen and how would that look to the other guys at school? For once he was just glad to be home, doing his time doing the crappy yard work he had originally received as punishment for skipping school until something snapped when he realized that Dad would be putting his promises on the back burner once again. He'd ended up over Dad's knee and he still wasn't quite sure how it all went to hell so fast. All he knew for sure was that he really hated the stupid endless leaves; he sometimes hated being stuck in the house watching his twerp bookworm brother when Dad was gone, but most of all, he hated, absolutely _hated_ old Mrs. Donnelly next door. She was the one who'd started this.

Standing to look over at the old bat's house, Sam's voice momentarily faded in the background. Yeah, she started this and somehow Dean had to finish it.

"Dean! Are you listening to me?"

"I said forget it!" he yelled back before turning back to confront his currently bratty brother who had also been given some community service for his role in the Game Boy incident. Of course he was smart enough to only get the service part. He knew when to keep his mouth shut to avoid the corporal punishment part.

"But, Deeean," Sammy said in that annoying whine he seemed to have perfected into an art form. "You don't even know what I want!"

"And I don't give a shit, either." Sam could barely hear his brother's grumble as Dean turned away from him again to continue the grunt yard work Dad had insisted they get done before dinner. But little Sammy was nothing if not persistent.

"Dad says it's not nice to swear," Sammy muttered matter-of-factly, but continued with his line of thought without waiting for his brother's reply. "Do you think Dad will let us go trick-or-treating this year? I've grown a lot since last year."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but sighed and turned to face his brother. The little shit always managed to pull right at his heartstrings, like Dean was some kind of mindless puppet. If only those puppy dog eyes worked as well on Dad. But this time even Dean wouldn't fall for it. Sam didn't know about Dad's latest broken promise, but Dean was still smarting from it. What makes Sam think Dad would now say yes to this request?

"Sammy," Dean said kindly, knowing this conversation would be hard enough on the little guy without Dean mocking him on top of it. "You know how dangerous it is out there at night, especially this time of year. Dad'll _never_ let us out." _Especially me, right now,_ he added to himself. "So knock it off and don't bring it up again, ok? Especially not in front of Dad. He'll just get mad and start one of his stupid lectures and we'll never hear the end of it." He hid his own sorrow behind a pained smile as he reached out and tousled Sammy's hair to signal the end of the conversation.

Sammy pulled away with a huff. "This sucks!" he exclaimed and gave the overstuffed garbage bag a swift kick. It toppled over, its contents spilling out onto the freshly raked grass. "And yard work sucks, too," Sammy added for good measure, staring down petulantly at the leaves on the ground, his arms crossed in youthful defiance. "This isn't even fair. What did I do? You were the one smarting off to him. Idiot."

Shock merged into anger. Dean fixed a stare on his very baby brother. His grip tightened on the rake that grounded him to the spot as he surveyed the mess that had taken them so long to clean in the first place. Suddenly he brightened with exaggerated sincerity. "Here, let me help you with that," Dean said as he dropped the rake on the ground and bent down to grab a handful of leaves. But, instead of pushing them back into the bag, he quickly stuffed them into Sam's hoodie, then pulled the whole thing up and over Sam's head.

"Deeeean!" Sammy squealed, momentarily disoriented by the leafy downpour. He tried to duck out of the way, but Dean was taller and faster, blocking his every path of escape until he ran out of leaves and decided the next best thing was to take the kid to the source. And with that he quickly turned on Sam, who was about to finally make a mad dash to safety, and grabbed the smaller boy's leg at the last second, dragging him to his faux death. "No! No! Dean, cut it out!" Sam yelled, grasping futilely at the grass as he went down and felt himself begin to slide. Dean just laughed and continued to drag the little guy across the rough lawn, sharp blades of tough and rough Bluegrass poking mercilessly through the knitted holes of Sam's light sweater. Yeah, sometimes older siblings could be deliberately malicious.

Dean lifted Sam with ease and began to carry the flailing boy to his doom - the giant bag of leaves that had been accumulating for a few weeks as Dad slowly filled it until it was ready to hit the curb to be picked up by the town. All the vigorous activity made Dean wince again as he felt nagging reminders of the beat down he had received yesterday, but he pushed the lingering pain out of his thoughts as he tried to push his suddenly strong little brother into the bag.

"Nooooo!" Sam conjured renewed strength as he saw where he was headed and managed to kick his way out of Dean's arms, but still landing partly on top of the open bag. Dean stepped back as he watched the boy and the bag tumble to the ground, already regretting the mess he had instigated.

He snapped back to attention as Sam's shriek interrupted his thoughts. He laughed at the sight. "What's wrong, Sammy? I've never seen you so red!" Dean teased, throwing Sam's words from yesterday back in his face.

"Ewww! Gross! You did that on purpose, jerk!"

"What? No, I didn't, bitch! Wait. What didn't I do?" Dean looked about confused as he automatically responded to Sam's yell before he even knew what the hell the yell was for. Sam scrambled to his feet, running behind Dean to push him forward.

"I'm not cleaning that up, Dean. You dropped me, YOU clean it up!"

Dean looked down and saw a grayish white mass at his feet and what appeared to be the longest mouse tail ever. Startled he stepped back, his eyes trying to register what he was seeing until he realized it was a possum - and a dead one at that. He couldn't be sure how it had gotten into the bag and for a moment he was transfixed by the lifeless creature.

"That better not come blowing into my yard!" A voice barreled into his thoughts. Dean's head snapped to attention as he sought out the source. Mrs. Donnelly. Of course. Dean scowled.

"You boys are always playing around, making messes! I'm sure your daddy didn't send you out here to scatter debris to the four winds. You can be sure it'll carry over to my yard and I'm not having it! You clean that back up, right now!"

Dean could feel Sam fisting his shirt from behind, the grip tightening as she spoke. He remembered his dad's command not to do anything that would bring the neighbor witch back to their door again. He swallowed the sarcasm that rose in his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he replied with as much false respect as he could muster. "It was an accident…"

"Accident my blue hair! I saw you, goofing off when you're supposed to be working. I'll bet your daddy sent you out here after that talk I had with him yesterday, huh? Uh huh. Serves ya right. Someone's always watching, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. Don't worry, we're going to clean it up," Dean said, trying to put an end to the unwanted lecture by - for once - not mouthing off. Kill the hag with a little kindness maybe - for now. "If we see any leaves blow into your yard, Sam will rush right over to pick them up."

"Dean!" Sam hissed in a loud whisper. "What are you doing?!"

"Just see to it that you do," Mrs. Donnelly replied, her eyes narrowing in suspicion as she found there was no further complaint to be made about this idea. Dean nodded and plastered on his best fake smile, the kind that usually quelled fussy adults, as he reached behind him to assure Sam he wouldn't throw him to the she-wolf like that.

"You know, in my day a boy like you would have been given a few good licks with the rattan cane - that would sort you out once and for all. But children these days just don't get enough discipline." The old bat made a sour-puss face and Dean almost lost it. He'd hardly been able to sit on those horrible wooden chairs in school and every single class had been torture. Suddenly he felt Sammy's small hand squeeze his in return.

Mrs. Donnelly huffed and turned to go back into her home, the beady-eyed cat waiting for her in the window and looking as suspiciously at Dean as she had. You couldn't convince him that cat wasn't her familiar.

When they were alone again, Sam came out from hiding. "We gotta get this picked up, Dean. I don't wanna go into her yard if a leaf blows over there. Her yard is probably cursed or something!"

Dean just smiled as he looked down again at the dead possum. Yeah. She had started this. And now he knew how he was going to finish it.


	3. Chapter 3

"No way."

"Come on, Sam."

"Dean, no. way." Sam folded his arms and turned his back to emphasize that this was his final decision. They were back inside the house, where it was thankfully a little cooler, all work done for today. John had called and they expected him home in a little while. He'd told them it was okay to have a little rest before fixing themselves a late lunch.

Dean sighed, and ran a hand through his short hair. He looked thoughtfully at his brother's back, considering the myriad of ways he could get the boy to help him. He decided to just be honest.

"Sam," he called, trying to get his brother to look at him. He watched as Sam hitched his shoulders, determined not to respond. "Sammy, man, please," Dean reached out to gently touch his shoulder and try to turn him around. This time he saw Sam's head turn ever so slightly, like he wanted to hear him out, but he was also trying to be the "adult" in this situation.

Dean kept nudging Sam's shoulder until he saw Sam release his arms and slump in defeat, moved by his older brother's quiet plea to face him. Dean could see the worry in the boy's face.

"Sammy, come on. Don't worry. We won't get caught," Dean reassured, holding Sam now on both shoulders, squeezing with conviction. Sam blinked as Dean's steady green gaze began to wear at his conviction. Sam always had as hard a time saying "no" to Dean, as Dean had denying Sam anything he wanted - usually. And even when he did say "no," because Dean also had a clear beat on the inner workings of John Winchester, it was usually a temporary "no" until the coast was clear for Dean to give in anyway, or to find another way to appease his brother. After all, he had to spend a lot more time alone with his little brother than Dad did, so why torture himself?

"Dean, you can barely sit now, dude. When Dad finds out…"

Dean knew he just had to play this cool - as long as he only _coaxed_ Sammy to go along with his plan, he'd be okay. Force things, and the little guy would get too antsy and blow their cover. "Dad _isn't_ going to find out."

At that, Sam couldn't help but snort. Dad _always_ found out - eventually. Sam imagined that he and Dean could both be in their 30s one day, and if that was when Dad found out about Dean's current scheme and Sam's willingness to be his accomplice, he wouldn't waste any time taking them both to the woodshed and laying into them with whatever strength he had left, not only for playing the prank, but for waiting 20-odd years to confess, forcing their dad to beat their asses when he'd rather be fishing. It was almost better to confess now that they were even thinking about it because their dad would surely go easier on them now than 20 years from now!

Dean huffed when Sam snorted. "Sammy, I won't tell if you won't."

"I don't _have_ to tell, Dean. Dad just _knows_! You know he just knows!"

Dean tsked and rolled his eyes as he walked over to his bed to sit down, then thought better of it and turned to plop on his stomach instead, facing the room. He was still seething from John's heavy hand and every brush against his bruised skin only served to remind him of that.

Sam sat on his own bed across from him and watched his brother as he first balanced his chin on his folded arms like he wanted to pout. It was clear a new argument was brewing within him. Dean then moved to balance on his elbows instead as he looked over at his brother. "Sammy, she's the reason we were out there. She's the reason my ass is still on fire!" _Or part of it_ "She's been a royal pain since we moved here, you _know _she has!"

Sam twisted his mouth and looked down at his hands. Dean was right that she had been causing them trouble from day 1 and Sam never knew what he had done to her. He had tried to be nice and all she could do was tell him he looked like a girl and should get his hair cut.

"I'm really tired of her calling me a girl," he whispered.

"That's right, Sammy," Dean agreed, moving now to sit up as he saw his brother start to come to his side. He moved too fast and hissed as his butt made contact with the lumpy mattress. _Damn, Dad!_ Sam looked up in concern. "Are you ok?"

"I'll be fine," Dean replied, holding up a hand to stop whatever touchy-feely emotions were about to come his way. Sam _could_ be such a chick sometimes. "Anyway, she has no right to talk about you or me like that. She doesn't know us! And tattling just because I stayed home from school…"

"I _told_ you not to do that, Dean."

"Dude!" Dean said with an arched eyebrow. "Do I harp about being right after Dad hands you _your_ ass?"

Sam just gave him a guilty look now, knowing that Dean _always_ tried to put a good word in for him when he found himself in hot water with John. Even when he earned himself a smack or five, he was hardly ever mad at Sammy afterwards. Also, Dad probably would have let Dean off the hook after the spanking, but with Sammy also staying up past his bedtime, he had put his brother right back into their dad's line of vision.

"Dean, I'm sorry." Sammy looked up at him with his puppy-dog eyes.

Dean cringed and put up another stop signal. "Ah ah. No chick flick moments, Sammy. It's all good. Really."

Sam smiled, suddenly feeling grateful to have a big brother like Dean who rarely treated him like he was in his way, like he'd heard so many of his friends complaining about _their_ older siblings. Dean had his moments, but for the most part he was there when Sammy needed him - whether he wanted him there or not. And there were more than a few times when Dean had taken a punishment that Sam deserved, but Dean never let on to Dad about the injustice being done. He had told Sam once that he was bigger and not as sensitive as Sam - ok, Sam was a little insulted by that part - and it was his job to protect his little brother, even from Dad if necessary. Seriously, it was the least he could do to support Dean in whatever he wanted to do, because usually he wasn't trying to be bad for the sake of being bad. He had his reasons and that was good enough for Sam.

"OK, OK." Sammy sometimes wondered why he even bothered to protest. He still thought their butts would likely pay the price, but revenge _did_ sound good. After all, it would only be just. The kids in the books he read often got one over on the adults, and they _never_ got into trouble.

"OK?" Dean repeated hopefully.

"Yeah. She's a pain in the butt, always getting us into trouble, even when we haven't done anything - much. I'm in. What's the plan?"

Dean rubbed his cheek and gave his brother a wicked smile. "I thought you'd never ask!"

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Before they were done with their yard work, Dean had located a pair of his dad's work gloves and picked up the stiff creature by its long tail while Sammy had reluctantly made sure the bitty next door wasn't watching them. Dean had quickly stuffed the creature back in the bag for safe-keeping, shivering as he did it, repulsed by the dead thing. He piled more leaves on top, but not too many, and felt pretty certain Dad wouldn't be touching the bag just yet since there was another full week before the town truck rode through to collect the leaf waste. But if for some reason Dad _did_ move the bag - like to take it to the dump himself - Dad would seal the bag first and never know what was inside. Dean's plan would remain safe in his thoughts even if the means for that plan was on its way to disposal.

Now that he had convinced Sammy to lend him a hand, all they had to do was wait for the right time. They knew they wanted to strike in the middle of the night, but Dad had just gotten home from his hunt and likely wouldn't roll back out that very night to do whatever it was that was disrupting Dean's previously hoped for time with him. Dean couldn't get that lucky. Usually, Dean would just walk straight up to John and ask him about his plans, but he'd felt too sore yesterday, and this morning, and was simply not in the mood to talk with his Dad at all. If John didn't want to spend time with him, fine - but that didn't mean he had to go grovelling. When Dad wanted to leave he'd go barking orders at him soon enough. Until then, all he was getting out of Dean was a cold shoulder. Well, and obligatory answers, such as "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" because, unfortunately, Dean's butt was still anything but cold and he just wasn't _that_ stupid.

So for the moment, he and Sam sat in quiet thought in the kitchen, eating the turkey and cheese sandwiches Dean had made them while Dad was still on his errands in town. They had to take full advantage of this chance to strategize. In a way, it was John's own fault this was going down, Dean thought, as he stared down at his dinner. John had been gone all week and although he _was_ technically home now, he still couldn't make it on time for _one_ lousy family dinner. At least he'd stocked up the fridge and pantry, though, Dean thought. If he had to force down one more portion of mac n' cheese, he was gonna lose it.

"I don't see how we're going to be able to sneak out of here, Dean," Sam said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Can I have a soda?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but got up to get the can of Coke for his brother. Sammy loved junk food, but he loved caffeine most of all, in whatever form he could get it.

Dean's thoughts kept twirling as he opened the refrigerator. Figures it would be the last Coke, because when he did the groceries alone, John only bought necessities. Dean sighed and shook his head. Even with three males in the house, Dean suspected the only one getting much of a choice in what he got to eat was Sam.

"Here, squirt," he said as he plunked the soda on the table next to Sam's hand. The thought to shake up the can came and went. What Dean really wanted was to make John pay for not wanting to spend time with him. Hell, the boys had seen more of the wretched Mrs. D. over the last week than they had of their father, and wasn't that just shit on a stick. As much as Dean suspected that seeing Sammy all covered in soda would brighten up his mood, he didn't want to risk losing his accomplice for the sake of an easy prank.

Sam smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Dean." And that smile was enough to make him glad he didn't do it. That smile fed him in ways food couldn't. Dean swore to himself he'd never go back on any promise he'd made Sammy. Not now, not ever. John could just go to hell - the boys were fine on their own.

"So, I'm thinking maybe we can help Dad get to sleep tonight?" Help. Dean knew how to give it and accept it - usually. John? Not so much. John was wrong to do everything solo. Dean knew what really made a difference was having a strong second in command. Spread the power around a bit, so to speak. But if Dad wanted to do everything on his own, he deserved to be excluded from Dean's life, too.

Sam chewed with a look of confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I know normally we'd never be able to sneak out of here, even after Dad falls asleep."

"No way," Sam agreed. "He could hear a ghost walk through a wall."

Dean chuckled. It hadn't been all that long ago when Sam had discovered Dad's journal and confronted Dean, forcing him to admit what Dad really did on his "sales" trips. Even though it had been overwhelming at first, Sam had found a place of acceptance once he bought Dean's explanation that Dad was a hero for doing what he did. Of course, that acceptance came _after_ Dad too had learned that Sam had found and read his journal, then promptly heated his son's butt for invading his privacy.

"He's got that crazy radar hearing when it comes to us, that's for sure," Dean surmised. "But not when he's been drinking."

Sam knitted his brows as he thought about what Dean said. "Yeah, ok, but he doesn't drink _all_ the time, Dean."

Dean snorted. "You could have fooled me."

Sam looked down at his sandwich for a moment before sighing. "Maybe," was all he was willing to give for now. "So how do you know he'll do it tonight?"

"Well, I figure, he's probably looking to relax now, before he has to head back out. When he came home yesterday, I'm sure he wasn't expecting to have to…um…" Dean chewed his lower lip as he looked down now at his own sandwich and opted to take a bite instead of finishing his thought.

Sam decided to focus on opening his Coke to give Dean some privacy with what he knew Dean was remembering. He watched storm clouds chase across Dean's face. He was still really angry, although Sam couldn't be sure why. Usually Dean hated to be spanked, and he'd sulk for a while, wouldn't let Sam comfort him at all, as he was too embarrassed by the whole thing, which was stupid. If anyone knew how Dad could be, it was Sam. But by the next day, Dean would be over it and Dad would be his hero again. He'd find some way to say he deserved it and joke it away saying he was stupid to have done whatever he'd done. And Sam hated that. Dean wasn't stupid, and more times than he could count, Sam felt like Dean had been punished too harshly for something really minor. They were kids after all. They had a right to mess up from time to time. He may be young, but even he knew that.

Sam sipped his Coke, then focused again on his sandwich before risking looking back up at his brother through hesitant lashes. If Dean caught him looking while he was in that memory, he might take it out on Sam. Nothing bad, of course, but sometimes he'd yell at him, which always hurt Sam's feelings even though he was smart enough to know Dean wasn't yelling at the person he really wanted to yell at.

This time, though, Dean just blushed as his eyes regained focus. He gave Sam a small smile as he stood up under the guise of being thirsty. Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway," he continued as he turned his back on Sam to pull a glass from the cabinet. He poised it under the faucet while filling it with tap water. "I figure we'll make sure he relaxes tonight. Get him anything he wants, you know?" Dean turned back to lean against the counter, glass moving to his lips.

Sam brightened at the thought of helping his Dad relax. He loved when John was relaxed and happy. It seemed to be a rare moment for Sam to get the kind of dad some of his friends had - just glad to be with his kids, talking to them, playing with them. "Yeah, we can make popcorn and watch a movie!"

Dean chuckled. "Sure, kid. I'm sure we could do that."

"I'll make the popcorn!" Sam volunteered. "Wait. Do we have popcorn?" he asked, suddenly concerned.

"Believe it or not, I think we do." Dean couldn't help but smile seeing his brother get happy at the chance to spend time with their dad. He understood. He had been thinking the same thing while John was away. Dean's smile faded some at the nagging thought and he sipped his water again as he banished the self-pity for good. There was no time for that now.

"You get the popcorn," Dean schemed, "And I'll bring the whiskey."

Sam deflated just a little, remembering the ultimate goal was to help dad relax by drinking. "How much do you wanna give him?"

"We'll make sure it makes him good and sleepy."

"Will he be drunk?"

"Probably."

Sam took another bite of his sandwich, his eyes going from side to side as he thought. Dean watched him carefully, not wanting to be pushy. Sam had to be on board with whatever they did. It was the best way to make sure he'd stick to whatever story they came up with.

Sam sighed and looked up at Dean. He put down the sandwich and took another sip of the Coke before he spoke. "No," he said with finality.

Dean looked aghast that Sam would disagree with his plan. It really wasn't fair. Dean _needed_ a win - he needed one badly, but if any of his plans were to be put into action, he _needed_ Sammy on board. "But…"

"No way, Dean. I'm sorry. I think we should go through with the first part of the plan. Mrs. D. deserves it, but Dad doesn't. He drinks enough. We don't need to help him. We'll find another way to get out of the house."

"But Sammy…"

"Dean, we'll find another way," Sam repeated, hands flat on the table and leaning in now to make sure Dean really heard him. "We always do."

Dean straightened up and pondered Sam's rigidity on the topic. Sam didn't push back that often, so when he did, he knew he had to at least reconsider.

"Besides, I hate it when he's drunk," Sam whispered, as he sat back in his seat, hugging himself. Dean softened now, realizing that this was ruining Sam's chance at some quality time with their dad. He walked over to place the glass on the kitchen table before sitting down again, carefully perching on the edge of his seat. Dad had almost broken his butt with that damned wooden spatula and sitting still wasn't fun. Or easy. Or whatever the hell sitting was supposed to be like. But watching your wife die and spending all your time hunting bad things wasn't fun, or easy, either, and for a moment Dean felt torn between revenge and guilt.

"I know, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "Me too. OK. We'll find another way."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

Sam brightened and leaned forward again. "It's ok, Dean. We're good at being sneaky. I'm sure we can get around Dad better than some dumb old ghost can!"

Dean chuckled and leaned forward to tousle his little brother's shaggy hair. "Dude, seriously, can I trim at least an inch?"

"You do and you die."

"OK, OK," Dean said, raising his hands in surrender. "Let's just be on our A game tonight. Gotta take advantage of any opportunity to distract Dad."

Sam nodded as he stuffed the last of his sandwich in his mouth. "Yep. Got it. Operation Possum is in effect!"

oOo OoO oOo OoO

_How to distract Dad._ Dean watched his father closely when he returned home, pondering this very thing. John seemed determined to start getting things ready for his return to the hunt he'd been focused on. He milled about the house, barking orders at the boys the moment he'd gotten home. The first order was to clean up the kitchen, which Dean was totally going to do, but Dad got home before he'd had a chance. There were only a few plates, the saucepan, the cutting board and some knives and forks, for crying out loud, there was no need for Dad to go all ape-shit about it. Then, just as Dean was about to run some water into the sink, Dad called them to come help him with stuff from the car and before he knew it, he was in the kitchen blasting them for not having cleaned up since last night. Sometimes Dean felt he just couldn't win.

Eventually Sam's puppy-dog eyes did the trick, guilting John into promising to hurry up and get things in order so he could hang with his boys to watch some monster movie Sam had wanted to see, but said he didn't want to watch without Dad. Normally John would have said no, but he would be home tonight if Sammy had a nightmare. John secretly relished the chance to baby his baby because he so rarely got that chance anymore. Most times Sam was too busy trying to be a big boy like his big brother.

Knowing that John was going to spend some time with them put a smile on Sam's face and he happily sat down at the kitchen table once again, this time helping Dad make some fresh salt rounds while Dean washed dishes from last night's dinner, breakfast and his and Sam's late sandwich lunch. Sam had a tendency to spill salt too, so Dean knew he'd most likely be doing the sweeping while he was at it. John was doing inventory of his weapons, vacillating between the living room and kitchen as he decided which to take and which to leave.

"Can I help you clean them, Dad?" Dean asked. Now that Dad was actually here, Dean felt some of his earlier anger seep away. When John was there, Dean knew his family was safe, and that allowed him to relax. With John out on a hunt, anything could happen and he always felt like he was looking over his shoulder, just waiting for him to be back.

"Pretty sure you have your hands full over there, Deano." John didn't know why the kid had to make such a fuss about the damned dishes every time. You cook, you eat, you clean up after yourself. And once that routine was established, you were set for life and things never got out of hand. No reason for CPS to go raising their eyebrows, either.

"Yeah, I know. I mean after." It was hard for John _not_ to hear the clear disappointment seemingly dripping out of Dean as he shot him down.

John glanced up as he checked the chamber of his favorite handgun. He knew how much Dean enjoyed handling the guns. There weren't too many adults he knew who actually _liked_ cleaning them, but Dean seemed to relish taking them apart and putting them together again, just as much as he liked helping John keep the Impala in tip-top shape. The boy had a natural talent for mechanics and, consequently, problem solving.

"Maybe," John replied. "We'll see. If you'd done as you were told, you'd wouldn't be in this situation, right, champ? So get to work and maybe I'll leave one for you."

Dean nodded and returned to the sink full of dishes. He knew John's maybes were the next best thing to a yes, so if he hurried, maybe he'd have his chance. "Any problems with the yard work?" John asked, turning to head back into the living room to get something else from his duffel.

This caught Sam's attention, who looked quickly over at Dean. He saw Dean stop mid-wash and get very still for a brief moment before replying. "No. No, sir. We, um, raked the whole yard and filled two of those bags. All cleaned up, just like you said, Dad."

Sam then turned to check John's reaction, but he was still in the living room. Looking back at Dean, Sam saw Dean was now twisting slightly to see if John was nearby, his hands still wet and holding on to the soapy plate over the sink. Both boys held their breath for the beat or so it took John to reply. They were concerned that maybe John knew about the possum and wanted to see if they would say something first. It was always better if they said something first.

John walked back into the kitchen, immediately sensing the concern. "Relax, boys. I was just asking," John chuckled at how wound up his sons could be sometimes. "I saw the yard. It looks good." A huge grin broke out on Sam's face. Dean breathed a sigh of relief and returned to the dishes. "I know it's hard work herding all those loose leaves. May as well be hearding cats."

"Or Mrs. Donnelly's cat," Sam added. "That thing's just creepy."

"Ha! Yes, it is. You just make sure you don't mess with it. Or anything else of hers, for that matter. Mrs. Donnelly doesn't exactly have the patience of Job."

"Yeah, well, if she did, she'd never give it back," Dean gruffed. "Pretty sure Sam never got back that baseball we lost in her yard. Right, Sam?"

"Nope. She said it wasn't there," Sam answered. "But it totally is! I know it is!"

"Yeah well, never mind that ball. I can get you another ball. I can't get another son. You go messing with her, there's no telling what she'd do." John had laid the rifle he'd brought back into the kitchen down on the table now and with his hands raised like a monster, he stepped carefully over to Sam. "She might…" he teased, reaching to pull Sam from his chair and lift him in the air as much as he could a growing 9-year-old boy, "...steal you away and boil you in her soup for her dinner AND that damn cat's!"

"Ewww, Dad! Cut it out!" Sam squealed in delight. John spun Sam in the air before returning him to his chair. "Daaad! I'm too old for that now, you know."

"Oh?" John tousled Sam's hair and went to sit at the table to start cleaning the guns that awaited him. "Too old, huh? So does that mean you're too old for me to watch that movie with you too? You can handle monster movies now, right?"

"No!" Sam exclaimed, looking as if John was serious. "You wouldn't!"

Dean and John laughed, which made Sam realize how much he was overreacting. He blushed as he went back to the salt rounds he was filling. "That's not funny, you know."

"I've got your back, squirt," Dean said, as he shook off his hands and dried them, the dishes finally done and drying in the drain.

"_We_ do, Sammy," John added. "I won't ever let anything happen to you. And Dean is going to help me keep you safe." John reached out and gave Dean's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. Which of course Dean pretended not to notice.

The teen sat at the table and propped his head on his hands as he watched John work. "What time is that movie, anyway?" John asked. Dean checked his watch as Sammy quickly replied, "It starts at 9!"

"What time is it now?"

"Going on 8," Dean answered.

"So let's get this done then," John said, pushing one of the guns in front of Dean, whose face instantly lit up. "Gotta have time to make the popcorn, right?"

"Right!" Sam agreed.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Nine o'clock was there in a blip. A few minutes before, Sam ran into the living room to set the channel, while Dean got up to rummage in the cabinets for the popcorn. They had bought one of those pans of popcorn the last time they went to the store. Sam loved to watch the foil get big as the popcorn filled the bag. He was so certain it would explode one day and he was dying to be there to see it.

"I'll make the popcorn, Dean!" Sam shouted from the living room as he sought the channel. Dean laughed at his brother's enthusiasm.

"I know! I know. Don't worry. Ain't gonna steal your job."

Sam ran back into the kitchen to take the pan from Dean's hand, as Dean was turning on the gas on the stove. "I've got it!" Sam said. Dean stepped back, with his hands raised. "Yeah. You've got it. Go 'head."

He watched Sam take the label off the top and toss it onto the counter. He paused mid-air as a shrill sound filled the air. Dean and Sam knew that sound. It was John's phone.

A small frown was already forming on Sam's face as he looked over to see John looking for the phone. After patting himself down, John realized it was in the living room. He hopped up to find it, while Dean looked over at the disappointment already growing on Sam.

"Hey," Dean whispered. Sam kept looking toward the living room. "Hey, Sammy," Dean said again. "Pay attention. You're going to burn the popcorn."

Sam looked up at Dean, but it was clear he wasn't really seeing Dean. His ears were straining too hard to hear John on the phone.

"It doesn't mean anything, you know," Dean said, trying to calm the coming storm.

Sam narrowed his eyes as they finally focused on Dean. "Since when?" he asked flatly. Dean couldn't reply. He wasn't exactly feeling confident himself right now. He grew quiet, trying to listen too and keep an eye on the popcorn Sam was haphazardly shifting on the stove.

John was too quiet. That couldn't be a good sign.

After a few moments, they heard his steps coming toward the kitchen. Sam quickly turned back to the stove and returned his focus on the popcorn. He was determined not to be upset if John had to leave. It never did any good to get upset because John would still leave if he really needed to.

John was rubbing the back of his neck. Dean noticed he wasn't looking them in the eye when he entered again, so he refocused his attention on Sammy. To John, it was clear the boys were too quiet now and overly concerned about not burning the popcorn. He knew he had to just tell them the deal and get it over with.

"Um, boys? That was Stevie. Bad news."

"It's OK," Sam replied quietly.

"What?"

"You have to go. We get it."

John sighed, looking at Dean as if he wanted help, but Dean wouldn't take his eyes off the popcorn.

"Boys, I'm sorry. I wouldn't do it…"

"But someone needs help," Dean added this time, turning back to John as Sammy moved the finished pan over to the center of the stove to cool. Dean breathed deep, the conflict within him finally settling. While he'd been cleaning the gun, Dean _almost_ considered not going through with Operation Possum, because, well - sneaking out on Dad? _So_ not the best plan in the world, but hey - if Sammy didn't even get to watch _one_ movie with his old man, then to hell with it, the old bird was going _down!_ In the greater scheme of things, they couldn't have planned it better, even if they'd tried. They _needed_ John to go so they could follow through with their revenge plan. That luck that Dean thought earlier he could never get, was presenting itself now. But that didn't mean he wasn't disappointed along with his little brother. Time with Dad trumped everything, even revenge.

"Dean…," John started.

"Seriously. It's ok, Dad," Dean said, turning to look at him now and smiling a tight smile. "Right, Sammy?"

Sam sighed as he looked at the popcorn. He wondered if they'd even get to eat it, or if John would insist on maintaining regular bedtime routines now that he was heading out. But he too remembered they needed John out of the house, and this could be their lucky break. "Right," he agreed, nodding, mostly to convince himself. He added a smile of his own. "Right, Daddy," Sam said, going to hug John to make them both feel better. "It's ok, really. We'll be ok." He pulled back to look John in the eye. John smiled as he looked down at his younger boy. Smoothing the hair on Sam's head, he looked over at Dean who too seemed to be in a place of understanding now whereas they weren't just five minutes before. John knew by the way Dean had sat perfectly rigid on his chair while cleaning the gun that his rear end was still mighty sore, and the kid _had_ tried to keep his mouth in check and make up for his bad behaviour the previous day. The understanding boy he saw standing in front of him now was a lot more mature than that and John knew he put a lot of responsibility on the kid's shoulders. John couldn't quite be sure how he got so lucky with these boys, but he was grateful.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise. Stevie was already on his way when he called. Figured I'd be willing to help out. He'll be here in a few to pick me up. I really don't think I'll be gone that long. It's just another hunt one town over. It's just for tonight, then he'll bring me back. Swore it wouldn't be more than a few hours. I'll be back before morning, I'm sure."

"OK, Dad. Don't worry," Dean said, folding his arms as his little plan came back to the forefront. "I've got things here."

"Good," John said, giving Sammy's shoulders a squeeze and nodding to Dean before he started getting the weapons moved from the table and back to the duffel. "I'll leave that gun here. You can finish cleaning it. I have another. Sammy, I expect you to finish those salt rounds," John called from the living room.

"OK, Dad."

John hurried back to the kitchen to check one more time. "OK, I've gotta go get a few things from upstairs."

"OK, Dad," Dean said as John disappeared from the room.

Sam looked over at Dean as Dean stepped to the doorway to wait for John. "This is a good thing, Sammy," he spoke in a hushed tone, keeping his eyes toward the stairs. "We'll give it a little time before we go out."

"Can we watch the movie still?"

"I don't see why not, but we'll have to finish up quick before we start. By the time I'm finished with the gun and you've packed those last two salt rounds it'll be just about to start. You wouldn't want to miss the beginning, would you?" Dean said with a smirk.

"That's ok. I've seen it before."

"What? When?"

"Once when YOU were sleeping and Dad was away."

"Sammy, you know you aren't supposed to be watching scary movies, especially alone."

"Yeah well, that's why I wanted you and Dad to watch it with me this time. Last time I watched most of it through my fingers!"

Dean laughed as John reappeared in the living room. The boys moved to where he was to watch him prepare to leave. "OK, boys, you know what to do," John said looking Sam in the eye first. "And what not to do," he added, looking Dean in the eye next.

"Yes, sir," both boys responded in unison.

"I'll be back before morning. I won't call you, because you should both be long asleep by then."

"We will, sir," Dean promised.

John nodded as he stood a moment to look at both boys. They were being awfully agreeable to this, he mused. They usually were agreeable, eventually, but not usually this fast. Obviously, the spanking had done Dean some good, cleared his head. The innocent looks on both their faces gave John a moment of doubt, though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but his gut feeling told him something was off today. John really wanted to stay, but how much trouble could they get into?

The honk from outside broke through his thoughts and pulled him away. He wasn't going to be gone that long anyway. He'd be sure of that. He sighed as he decided to just follow through on the plan then hurry home to be with his boys. "You can watch the movie _after_ you've done your chores, and Dean - turn it off if he gets scared."

Dean nodded dutifully and Sam wrapped his arms around his brother's waist and said to John. "You know Dean will protect me."

That elicited a small but genuine smile from John. Picking up the duffel and another bag he'd brought down from his room, he gave them one last stern look. "You be good now," he warned. The horn honked again.

"We will. Don't worry, Dad. I've got this," Dean vowed. "You better hurry."

"Be sure you do, Dean. I'll see you boys in a few hours." With that, John headed out, the door closing loudly behind him.

"OK, Sammy, let's get our chores done. We'll watch this movie for a while. Make sure Dad is gone. Make sure Mrs. D. is asleep. Then, we'll get to work."


	4. Chapter 4

_Well, so much for my good luck,_ Dean thought as he knowingly took in his little brother's body language. _If I ever get my hands on a Leprechaun, that dude will __**owe**__ me!_ Dad was gone, so that was going according to plan, but now it was looking as though his partner in crime might bail on him.

All thanks to that dumb-ass movie. He was starting to regret letting Sammy watch it. Maybe nine was too young for it, after all. At the time, Dean had figured it would be a good way to distract Dad, or to pass the time until it was late enough for them to sneak out unseen. He'd also thought it wouldn't do any harm, since Sam said he'd seen it before. But by the way Sammy's shoulders were drawn up to his ears and his hands covered not only his eyes, but most of his face, the little tyke was clearly _not_ enjoying this. Dean didn't _really_ get it though - it was only a movie, make-believe, and therefore nothing to be afraid of. They also shared a room together, so it was not like he'd be alone, either. If Sammy had a nightmare, Dean would be right by his side. But on second thought, maybe _Pet Sematary_ wasn't the best movie to watch right before they went out in the dark to dig up a dead possum.

"Sammy, it's not real," Dean explained for what felt like the twentieth time, but when his brother continued to refuse to look at the screen, Dean moved the popcorn out from between them and put his arm around his brother. When Sammy ignored popcorn, that just wasn't a good sign. Dean was starting to feel pretty fidgety himself, knowing what they were about to do, and he kept staring at his wrist-watch willing the hands to move faster. Round quarter to ten he figured they'd waited long enough and he put them both out of their misery and turned off the TV. Sam was too relieved to even pretend to make a fuss and instantly bounced up to grab his jacket and stuff and meet Dean back at the door. But once they were outside, in the pitch-black darkness of their back yard, the memories came back and Sammy moved so close to Dean he could barely manage to move without bumping into his brother. "Get a grip, it's just a movie!" Dean sighed as he pushed his brother out of the way so he actually had a chance to see what he was doing.

"I know!" Sam answered a little too quickly. "Let's just get this done, ok? It's just too creepy out here." Dean could feel his brother behind him looking around as if making sure nothing undead was creeping up on them. Knowing what he knew about monsters and hunting now, Sam could never be too sure. If Dean had to admit it, he wasn't always 100% certain himself. John, too, often came home from a hunt and talked about things he wouldn't believe if he hadn't seen them with his own eyes. Seen and, most often killed, that is.

Sam kept lookout while Dean rummaged as quietly as he could through the bag of leaves. Without a light in their back yard, it was difficult to see what he was doing so he had to feel his way around. Add to that the fact that the bag was under a tree, and the extra darkness cast over the bag was almost suffocating. For once he wished the old bat next door had some sort of light in her yard right now, but it was certainly for the best that the activity be as clandestine as possible.

Digging down, Dean could feel he had hit something solid even through his father's thick work gloves. He let out a small yelp as he jumped at the sudden mass amidst the fragile leaves. "What?!" Sam demanded. "What is it? You find it?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed. "I got it. Just keep watch."

"Hurry up!"

"Alright! Alright! Chill out, would ya?" Dean found the tail and pulled the rigid creature from its hiding place. "OK. Got the stuff?"

"Yes, Dean. I've got it," Sam replied impatiently, clutching a paper bag in his hand as he looked around to make sure the coast was clear of creatures alive as well as undead. "Man, Dad is gonna bury us under the house if he ever finds out."

"So we make sure he doesn't find out, Sam. I'm not planning to talk. Are you?"

"I'll take it to my grave," Sam promised. "But if I come back from the dead, all bets are off."

Dean reached out to lightly punch his brother on the arm.

"Ow!"

"That didn't hurt, you wuss."

"It totally did," Sam mumbled.

Stepping into Mrs. Donnelly's yard, Sam kept scanning all around them while Dean led the way to the back porch. They crept across the grass, watching her windows for any signs of movement. They walked gingerly onto the wooden boards as they climbed the three steps to the weathered deck. Dean crouched at the center and held out an expectant hand.

"Hand me the chalk, Sam."

Sam nodded, grasping the paper bag tightly in his fist, as he reached into his jeans pocket to retrieve the powdery white stick. Handing it to Dean, he caught movement in his peripheral vision and looked up at Mrs. Donnelly's darkened kitchen window.

"Give it, twerp!" Dean hissed when Sam took too long to complete the transfer to his hand. Sam didn't notice Dean snatching it from him, too mesmerized by the dense darkness in the window. His brain tried to make sense of what he was seeing as his eyes focused on the shape becoming more familiar to him. He gasped once he recognized two reddish eyes staring out at him. "Dean!" he loudly whispered. "Dean!"

"What?" Dean asked, annoyed now by Sam poking him in the shoulder. He looked up at his wide-eyed brother, who was pointing at the kitchen window. Following his brother's gaze, he spotted the distraction - Mrs. Donnelly's cat had found its way to its usual perch in the kitchen window. The black cat blended into the opaqueness around it. Its glowing eyes startled Dean for an instant as he, too, registered what he was seeing.

He breathed again once he put two and two together. "It's just her dumb ole cat, Sammy. Nothing to worry about." He added for good measure, "It's not dead or anything!"

"That's not funny, Dean!"

"Come on," Dean chided as he refocused on the task at hand. "It's a _little_ funny."

Carefully he began to draw the circle on the wood. "OK, dude, gimme the paper."

Sam pulled his eyes away from the watchful cat long enough to switch the paper bag to his other fist so he could dig in his other pocket for the paper where Dean had practiced the symbols he would use in the circle. He couldn't help but glance back at the cat as he handed Dean the sheet.

"What if it really is a familiar?"

"What?"

"The cat. What if it's Mrs. D's familiar."

"Don't be stupid."

"How is that stupid?! She _could_ be a witch. You don't know!"

"If she were a witch, she'd stop tattle-telling and do something herself. Now shut up. You're gonna get us busted."

Sam let that logic ruminate as he looked around them again to be sure they were still alone, cat notwithstanding, then watched Dean draw the symbols in the circle. "Where'd you learn those?"

"Just some stuff I remember seeing when I helped Dad with research a few times."

"How do you know they won't actually do something?"

Dean hesitated as he looked up and gave Sam a crooked smile. "It's just stuff I'm mixing together from a few different lore. I'm sure it's ok." He continued with the scratchings. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he added to himself. "What time is it?" he asked. They weren't concerned about waking Mrs. Donnelly. She had already made her bedtime perfectly clear early on when they first moved in and Dean and Sam had had the nerve to chase each other out into their own yard at 9 p.m. one night, drawing the ire of the bat next door who had said decent people were sleeping at that time. No, Dean was more concerned that they be done and in bed before whatever time Dad got back. You could never be sure when Dad would show.

Sam shuffled the bag yet again to check his watch. "10:30 Dad's been gone almost 2 hours. Think he'll be back soon?"

"Not this soon, but you can't be too sure." Dean stood up to admire his artistic skills. "Not bad, huh?"

"Sure, Picasso. Can we get on with it?" Sam looked around again and shivered when he saw the cat was still sitting in the window. He wanted to try to spook it, but he wasn't so sure he could spook it more than it was spooking him right now.

"OK, now the yuck part," Dean said, as he reached for the work gloves he'd taken off to have a better grip on the chalk.

"You could just leave it there," Sammy said, turning up his nose in disgust at the mere _thought_ of what Dean had proposed the other day.

"No, it has to be authentic, look sacrificial." This time Dean dug in his own pocket, pulling out his longest and sharpest pocket knife and handing it to Sam. He picked up the possum that was lying on one of the steps and laid it in the center of the circle. He then pulled off the work gloves, giving them to Sam as well before retrieving a pair of disposable rubber gloves from his pocket.

"OK, knife," he asked, holding out his gloved hand like a surgeon." Sam complied and Dean shrugged his eyebrows at him with a smile as he opened the knife. He breathed deep. "Here goes nothing." Kneeling again, he positioned the knife over the heart of the animal. He breathed again as he dug the knife into the creature's chest. He hoped a year of high school biology would be enough to help him out in this moment. When the knife broke the skin, the smell of the decomposing creature, that had been pretty faint until now, intensified and Dean had to suppress a gag. As if that wasn't enough, the knife pierced something it shouldn't and black goo oozed all over Dean's shirtfront.

"Ewww," Sam grimaced. "So gross."

Dean was really glad he hadn't gotten it in his _face_ and tried not to worry about the mess. "Gotta give..." Dean grunted slightly, "...the full effect or else it just looks like a prank." He turned his face away to get some fresh air into his lungs, and not just eau de possum mort, and resumed his dissection with renewed vigour.

"Pretty sure it won't look like a prank, Dean. She'll be looking over her shoulder for weeks!" Sam couldn't help but smile at the thought of getting the old woman off their backs, at least for a little while. He looked around again, not really wanting to see everything Dean was doing.

It was taking a little longer than Dean had hoped. Getting to the heart wasn't easy. Dean chuckled to himself. Getting to the _heart_ of the matter indeed. He thought about letting Sammy in on his joke, but the little fry seemed so agitated he just _knew_ that awesome line would just be wasted on him. He shook his head and tried to focus. He had to assume it wasn't exactly going to look like an actual heart or even like a human one. He couldn't be sure though.

"Ah ha!" Dean yelled triumphantly as he crunched his way through the creatures rib-cage and found the small organ.

"Shhh! Dude, you're gonna wake her!" Sam whispered gruffly.

"Sorry," Dean said lowering his voice. "Got it...I think. Got something!"

Sam shivered as he looked at the growing mess before him. He was glad he hadn't eaten too much earlier, but he could feel his stomach starting to churn nonetheless. "It doesn't matter. I doubt she's an expert in veterinary science. Just leave it there and let's finish it already."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said as he stood up again and looked at the organ lying next to the dead animal. So gross, for sure. But it looked like a sacrifice...well, almost. He laid the knife on the deck and carefully pulled the gloves from his fingers. "Take the rest of the stuff out of the bag. Put one at each of the directional points on the circle."

Sam hadn't exactly performed any rituals in his life so far, but he understood what Dean wanted him to do. Pulling out four short, thick candles from the bag and a Zippo, he handed Dean the paper bag to dispose of the gloves.

He placed the candles at the North, South, East and West points on the circle, then went back around as he lit each one with the lighter. Dean watched Sammy closely, thinking that _somehow_ matches would have seemed more _authentic_, but what could you do? The boys stepped back as the flames slowly grew, the glow brightening. The looked at each other and smiled.

"We're done here, Sammy." Dean was the one to look around this time, sparing a glance at the kitchen window where he noticed the cat had decided to leave. "What time is it now?"

Sam checked his watch again. "Not too bad. 10:45."

"OK, that gives me time to clean up a little and we can get to bed and actually be asleep before Dad gets home."

"What about that?" Sam asked, pointing to the evidence in the paper bag.

"No worries. I'll shove it back in the leaf bag for now. If I get a chance, I'll take it with me to school on Monday. Burn it somewhere."

Sam nodded. "Ok, can we go now?" he asked looking nervously at the window, hoping Mrs. Donnelly hadn't been disturbed by that darn cat and decided to see what was going on.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get out of here," Dean agreed as they both began to head back to their own yard. "You should take a quick shower. Dad's going to ask if you did, but be quick. It may only be a few more hours before he gets home and we don't want it to look like we just went to bed."

"Don't worry. I'm tired enough to sleep through anything," Sam said, then suddenly he remembered the movie and the chill he got thinking about it came back. "Too bad Dad couldn't have watched that movie with us, though."

Dean chuckled. He had found his way back to the leaf bag and shoved the paper bag in as deep as he could. "What? Why? You scaaaared?"

"No," Sam said quietly. Then decided to try to be brave. It was only a movie, right? "No, I'm not scared, you jerk."

"Uh huh. I think you are, bitch. But don't worry, Sammy. You can sleep with me if you get scared of the dark. I'll protect ya." Sam knew Dean was teasing him, but he also knew, if he needed to, he could take refuge with Dean for the night and he wouldn't kick him out.

"It's just a movie, Dean."

Dean smirked as they headed into the house. "Is it?"

am just looked at his brother, who had more experience with all things monstery than he did right now. He really could be a jerk sometimes.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

It was 6:30 a.m. by the time Stevie dropped John off at home. John gave his friend a quick salute from the porch, picked up the newspaper that had already been delivered, then gingerly opened the door, in case the boys were still asleep. It was Saturday and when he was home, that usually meant the boys would be up by now and either running laps or doing some sort of discipline-strengthening chore. But John was not so naive to think they did this when he was not at home unless he specifically said he expected it. They knew he had a pretty good sense for when they were lying and rarely tried to get away with not doing their work.

But John did not leave that particular order this time and he knew Sam and Dean would take full advantage of this opportunity to be the pre-teen and teen boys they were - lazy to the hilt. Also, with the late-night movie, the boys would probably need the extra hours of shut-eye.

Stepping inside the quiet house, everything pretty much looked as it had when he left it. If they chose to watch the movie without him, he'd expect to see a bit of a mess in the living room, but...not bad. Some disheveled pillows on the sofa, a little popcorn here and there, but nothing that made John want to snatch the boys from their beds.

Moving quietly into the kitchen, he spotted the popcorn container. It was empty. They must have watched then. John smiled to himself as he wondered how Sam made it through the night - in his own bed or huddled up under Dean, in John's absence. He would find out later. Right now, even as tired as he was, what he needed was a little coffee before crashing for a few hours. He knew it seemed backward, but coffee had the dual effect of waking him when he needed it or calming him when he preferred it, an upper and downer in one tasty package.

He needed to clean up right quick first and was glad this house had two floors with two bathrooms so he didn't have to go stomping around upstairs just yet.

Washing his hands thoroughly and returning to the kitchen, John yawned as he sought his favorite mug and went in search of the instant coffee he tended to keep as backup when a coffeemaker wasn't available in whatever place he was renting. He could do fresh brewed or instant. Addicts weren't choosy.

He pulled out the utensil drawer to find a spoon, the slight rattle masking the sound coming from the front door. He closed the drawer and held it in the air as he turned his head to find the noise that suddenly came into focus.

"Gawd dammit! Is that really the front door?" He looked down at his watch. "At this hour?" he muttered to himself, as he briefly contemplated whether or not he wanted to answer. What if it was those people with the pamphlets? Do they come this early? Did they see him get out of Stevie's car and know he had just arrived home? Who else would dare knock on a man's door so early on a Saturday?

The determined knock came again. John growled, tossing the spoon in the waiting coffee cup. "This better be good," he grumbled, glancing up the stairs as he strode past, hoping not to see a sleepy boy or two on the way. The knock came a third time. "All right, damn you," he said in a low tone at the door. "You better not wake my boys…" he hissed, swinging open the front door to give someone a piece of his mind. "...with all your clatter." John was taken aback at the visitor. "Mrs. Donnelly? It's 6 in the morning."

"6:30, Winchester. You're a working man. Surely you don't burn precious daylight."

John sighed, reigning in his former annoyance in an effort to show some patience with the old woman. 6:30 was hardly a respectable time for visitors of any sort, but she was a neighbor. He wanted to be neighborly. She lived alone - with her creepy cat - and maybe she needed help. He was in the business of helping people, after all.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Donnelly?"

"You can corral those brats of yours, that's what. The police will be here soon and then we'll see who gets the last laugh."

"Excuse me?" John asked, leaning in now to better focus on the woman. He could feel his temper start to flare.

"I called them! I know they did it, those hooligans of yours. I'll show them! They're friends of mine, you know."

"What? Who?"

"The police. My Peter was a police officer. Twenty-three years before those delinquents killed him in that robbery." Mrs. Donnelly looked away now in her first display of any humanity.

Now John got it. A cop's wife. That's what he had been sensing before. Just his luck to move next door to a beacon for the cops. He didn't know what was happening, but he had to diffuse it quick.

"I don't know what's going on, Mrs. Donnelly, but if the cops have to be involved, I can assure you my boys had nothing to do with it."

"You can assure me, huh? How? How do you know what they get up to when you fall asleep, huh?"

John rolled his eyes and shifted his weight to one foot as he continued to pray for patience with the woman. "They don't get by me, Mrs. Donnelly. Even when I'm sleeping."

"Oh yeah? That big one got by you the other day now, didn't he? When he skipped school?"

"I wasn't there then. I _am_ here now."

Mrs. Donnelly just glared at John a moment, as if she was trying to decide what to believe.

"What exactly happened anyway," John continued.

"What happened? What happened?! I'll tell you what happened," Mrs. Donnelly spat as she wrapped her thick woolen shawl around her shoulders more tightly and muttered under her breath.

"Please do."

"I've got a dead animal on my back deck, that's what happened!"

"What?" John straightened now. "Somebody killed your cat?" That _definitely_ didn't sound like his boys.

"No. They left a dead possum. And its heart was cut out! That do it for ya, Winchester?! I don't know what the devil is up with youth today…"

"Mrs. Donnelly," John started holding out his hands to placate her. "I don't know who did that to you and I'm sorry to hear about it, but you've got the wrong boys. My sons are good boys and they would never do a thing like that. There are other kids in this neighborhood, too, you know? Did you ever consider it could have been one of them, or someone else entirely? You said your husband was a cop?"

Mrs. Donnelly looked aghast at the suggestion that somehow this was connected to her dearly departed spouse.

"You leave my Peter out of this!"

"Ma'am, all I'm saying is maybe someone has some twisted sense of revenge for something? I don't know. It could just be some really stupid prank, but I can tell you Dean and Sam had nothing to do with this. You need to turn your search elsewhere."

"Yeah, we'll see about that. They'll be here and they will check it out."

"And find what, Mrs. Donnelly? The fact that you don't like children?" Now John was really starting to feel pissed. If she needed help, fine, but he really didn't care to be lectured on something that didn't concern him, or his boys, and most definitely not at such an ungodly hour in the morning.

"What? I never...I was a teacher for over 20 years, Winchester."

"Then that just expands the suspect pool, now doesn't it?" In a perfect world, John would be able to just shut the door in the old crone's face, but he had better manners than that.

Mrs. Donnelly and John squared off at that moment, neither willing to concede their point, neither truly able to prove it either.

"I was here all night, Mrs. Donnelly." The lie passed smoothly over his lips and it would have taken an experienced behavioral analyst to detect it.

She looked over at John's car then. She couldn't debate that it hadn't moved an inch since she last cornered him. It was easy enough to hear him coming and going since the black behemoth tended to sound like one of those monster trucks her husband enjoyed so much.

"Umm hmm," was all she would say. "You just watch yourselves," she warned, as the police pulled up in front of her home. "They're on the case now."

"Good luck, Mrs. Donnelly." John watched as the old woman shuffled off the steps and began to rant again to the officers as they stepped out of their car, nodding as if they already knew what she was going to say. John saw her pointing to her back yard then looked at her quizzically as she made some kind of sweeping gesture that didn't seem to indicate she was accusing his boys just yet. He stayed long enough to see if the officers would look his direction, then watched as they followed her to the back.

John rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He had been busy helping Stevie fight a Crocotta that had found its way to a small town's forest not that far away. He hadn't considered there may be something evil right in his own neighborhood; something that could have hurt his children while he was off hunting elsewhere. Something that had a penchant for sacrifices, it seemed. "The heart was cut out?" he said to no one. John would have to see if he could get some details.

But the Winchesters had only been here for a short while and already they had seen more of Mrs. D. than of all other neighbours put together. She put her nose in everyone else's business and John was actually surprised someone hadn't retaliated sooner. Then again, he was new to the area, so maybe things like this happened all the time. He'd have to find a more reliable source.

With a final look toward Mrs. Donnelly's yard, he stepped back into the house and shut the door, one palm lingering on the door as he thought.

"Hey, Dad," Dean said, interrupting his thoughts. John looked up to see his oldest standing at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes blinking at the light and looking like he just woke up that very second.

"Hey, Dean. How'd you sleep?"

"Good, I guess," Dean replied.

"You guess?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Sammy was hogging my covers last night."

John nodded and smiled. As expected. "He couldn't stay in his own bed last night, huh?"

Dean sucked his teeth at the the question. "I knew the movie might be a bad idea."

"What did you watch?"

"Pet Sematary."

"Ha! Yeah, that one made me jump first time I saw it."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, not wanting to let on that Sammy had actually seen it once before without either of them. No sense starting trouble.

John chuckled and moved toward Dean to cup the boy's face, lifting his chin to look into his eyes. "You look tired, son. Maybe you need a little more rest huh?"

"You're not looking so rested yourself, Dad. Tough hunt?"

John smiled and ran his hand over Dean's hair as he started back to the kitchen to resume his coffee making. "Naw, it was just a Crocatta. Sometimes it helps if you have a partner to corner these things. It's ok. But I could use some shut eye too. Sammy still sleeping?"

"Yeah. He's snoring and drooling on my pillow. So gross."

John laughed, always happy when moments of normalcy crept into their lives. "What was that all about?" John heard, instant coffee in hand, spoon in mid-dip.

"How's that?"

"At the door? Earlier?" Dean asked as he pointed toward the front of the house. John looked over to where he pointed, forgetting that he had been trying to keep an ear out for the cops leaving.

"Just Mrs. Donnelly being Mrs. Donnelly. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh."

John looked over at Dean then, who was still looking at the door with some unexplainable look on his face. "What's up with you?" he asked, filling a coffee pot to boil on the stove.

"Huh?"

"What's that look? Did something happen while I was away?" John turned fully to Dean then.

Dean chided himself for not leaving the whole thing alone in the first place. "No, sir," he replied, an innocent look replacing the concerned one he had had a moment ago.

John narrowed his eyes as he watched the boy a moment longer. "No?"

"No, sir. We watched the movie, just like we planned. We may have gotten a little loud," Dean added sheepishly. "I thought maybe she was here saying we were too loud last night." Dean chewed his lip to keep from saying any more. A good lie needed to be somewhat detailed but simple too. Don't overdo it.

John nodded, then moved to return the coffee to the cabinet. "Nope. She didn't say anything about any noise. You're good." He watched as Dean visibly relaxed and smiled. Protecting him, protecting Sam, was all that ever mattered to him after he lost his Mary. " Don't worry about her, son. I can handle her."

Dean just nodded and rubbed his eyes again. "I'm gonna go lay down again, if that's ok, sir?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you do that. I'm gonna do the same and in a few hours maybe we can do a little crossbow training?"

John wasn't sure he'd seen Dean's smile get quite that big in a very long time. "For real?"

"We've got to make sure Sam has something he enjoys too, but yeah, I'm sure we can work something out. The library is only open half-days on Sunday, so I might as well spend some time with you boys and get cracking early on Monday. That way I don't have to go back on my promise."

"Awesome! That would be so cool, Dad. Thanks." Dean wanted to run to hug his dad, but he knew he was too big for that now. Sammy could still get away with it. It was times like now when he envied Sam being the younger brother. He crossed his arms instead.

John cocked his head at his awkward son, then cleared his throat. "I gotta go make a quick call to set things up." He walked over to Dean as he headed out to retrieve his cell phone from his bag. He stood before him for a sec, smiling at his boy as he lightly rubbed his hair and planted a quick kiss on his head on his way to the bag, not wanting to embarrass the kid. He knew his first-born still needed his father's affection. John didn't do it nearly as much as he wanted to, but this was one of those moments when he needed it too.

"Go on back to bed. I'll get you up later."

"Ok, Dad. Thanks, Dad."

"You're welcome."

Dean turned to hurry back to the stairs, taking them two at a time on the way up.

"Don't wake your brother," John loudly whispered at the boy's back. All John wanted now was his coffee, a couple of hours of undisturbed sleep and to spend some time with his boys. It was going to be a busy weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't even get to finish browsing through the newspaper in peace before there was another disturbance. This time the doorbell rang twice and John cussed under his breath. He stood up, placed his still warm coffee on the table and went into the hall. There, he, quickly moved the rug to cover the salt line by the door and opened it. He didn't want the cops to think he was a nutcase.

As expected, two officers awaited him on his front porch. The younger one, clearly the probie, was holding a pen and notebook in hand, but otherwise didn't seem too eager to get anything done. The older man with the hideous mustache tipped his head at John and said, "Top of the morning to you, sir. I'll cut right to the chase. We got called in by your neighbour, Mrs. Donnelly, because there was, what appears to be, a ritualistic sacrifice made on her back porch. Sir?"

John couldn't help but think of the yellow-eyed demon as he heard the words "ritualistic sacrifice." He felt momentarily taken back and just stared at the officer. "What?" John asked, completely puzzled. "She told me it was a dead possum that probably got dragged there by her own cat and now you're-"

"It was a possum, sir," the probie threw in his two cents' worth. "But I don't think a cat could draw a circular pattern of chalk, cut open the dead critter with a knife, remove its heart, place it in the center and light candles around it."

The older officer cleared his throat. "Old Mrs Donnelly is very upset about this, sir, as I'm sure you can imagine, and she said she was _certain_ it must have been your boys-"

"Now you just wait a minute," John's voice was a low, predatory growl. "What you're describing is _sick_. My boys would _never_ do a disgusting thing like that just to scare a little old lady."

"But Mr. Winchester," the probie tried to interject, but he was met with an icy stare that had him back pedal in an instant.

"I've already spoken to my boys. They didn't do this." John was about done with this subject.

The probie tried again, "But Mrs Donnelly..."

"Has got you barking up the wrong tree. You're looking for a sociopath and my kids sure as _hell_ don't fit that profile. So I suggest you go looking elsewhere."

"Mr. Winchester," the officer with the mustache interjected, hoping to keep the peace, "I know this is disturbing news, but if we could just ask your boys a few que-"

This earned the man a full-on Winchester glare. "My oldest son is only thirteen, so they are both minors, and I already asked him before you came." John's voice was cold as ice.

The officers exchanged uncomfortable glances. "All right then, Mr. Winchester, we'll be on our way," Officer Mustache said as he tipped the brim of his hat. "Please let us know if you hear or see anything suspicious in the neighbourhood."

"Will do," John said gruffly as he closed the door with a little more force than needed.

"Ritualistic sacrifice," he muttered as he stomped back to drain the remains of his coffee. He let his thoughts wander a little as he washed out his mug and placed it upside-down to drip dry. That sounded like devil worship or some such shit and if it had been anyone else other than Mrs. D. he might have felt more concerned about it, but the old coot was such a royal pain in everyone's ass, he had to say his first instincts told him this was just a highly inappropriate schoolboy prank. Still, he'd better look into it, but right now he was practically dead on his legs, so he headed off to bed.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Mornin', boys," John greeted his two troublemakers as he sauntered into their room a little after 11 a.m. He'd managed to get in four full hours of sleep, and he'd slept like a dog, so he felt plenty refreshed. Also, his news helped to put an extra spring in his step.

Dean looked up from his comic, looking a lot more refreshed than he had earlier. Sammy carefully placed his half-finished dinosaur skeleton back on the desk before turning around in his chair.

"Morning, Dad!" both boys said, one slightly more cheerful than the other.

John walked over to the desk and leant against it as he wrapped his arm around Sammy and hugged him to his side.

"Hey, Sammy," John said as he ran his hand up and down the kid's back. "Dean tells me you didn't sleep very well last night."

"It was okay," Sammy mumbled, gladly returning the hug.

"There's a reason movies have an age restriction, you know," John said gently. "If a story gives you nightmares you may not be old enough to distinguish between what is real, and what isn't."

"I _told_ him it wasn't real!"

"I know, Dean. But your brother's only nine, don't forget that."

Dean just shrugged his shoulders in response. He'd basically held the kid's hand for the past 15 hours - what _more_ was he supposed to do? Sammy was just being a baby.

"You boys had breakfast?" John looked at Dean expectantly, who nodded his head. "Yeah, and we're out of milk."

"Did you clean up after yourselves?"

"Not yet," Dean said, looking sheepish.

"Dean." The boys were always impressed by how much John could convey with just one small syllable uttered in his ominous growl.

" 'M sorry, sir."

"It's a very simple chore, Dean. You make a mess, you clean up after yourself. It's not rocket science."

"Yes, sir," Dean mumbled in reply.

"You know what happens to Marines who don't follow orders?"

Dean's face set in a frown and John felt Sam's small body tense against his. John looked at Dean expectantly but the teen just nodded his head mutely.

"Can't hear your head rattle, son."

"Yes, sir," Dean mumbled, all teenage petulance. They'd _both_ made a mess, but of course John was only reaming _him_ out. "They're made to do exercises until they're ready to hurl."

"Then go do your job and lose the attitude while you're at it. Now git." John dismissed Dean with a nod of his head. Dean had been lying on his stomach, but elegantly rolled out of bed and bounced lithely onto the balls of his feet. John gave a small amused snort despite himself. Kid had the reflexes of a cat.

"Your brother sure knows how to move when he wants to," John said, giving Sam a conspiratorial look. Sammy grinned up at him shyly and nodded.

"So, any bad dreams you wanna talk about, Sammy?" John playfully stroked his boy's still sleep-tousled hair.

"No, 's okay. Dean let me sleep with him. I'm not watching that stuff again, sir." Sam didn't sound very convincing and he nervously started to play with the sleeves of his pajama top.

"Uh huh. Walk with me," John said as he pushed himself off the desk. Sammy looked up at him with big brown eyes, but obediently trotted by his side as John led them to his room. There, he opened his duffle and took out his gun. He hadn't needed to fire it, so it was locked, loaded and ready for action.

John wasn't sure what was happening at Mrs. Donnelly's house, but he knew one thing for sure - he was not leaving his boys unprotected. Dean already had a gun of his own and knew how to handle it. John had started giving Sammy lessons too whenever he was teaching Dean something new. Whether the monsters were real or imagined, it was about time Sammy had some peace of mind of his own.

He carefully held the .45 in the palm of his hand as Sammy stared wide-eyed at the weapon before looking at John in confusion. "This is for you, son," John announced, extending the gun as he waited for Sam to reach out for it.

"I...I don't get it, Dad. Whadda I need that for?"

John smiled. "Well, Sammy, you know sometimes those monsters in the closet are real."

"Dad!"

"What? It's true, Sam. You know that. You've read that, in my journal? I've told you that."

"Yeah, I know, but a gun, Dad? What am I gonna do with a gun? If those monsters really are real, and you aren't here, Dean will protect me."

John lowered the gun and stooped before the boy. "Sammy, Dean and I are always going to protect you, ok? Always. This?" John smiled now, not wanting to belabor the issue too much. He did have other plans for the day. "This is just in case, ok? Just take it. For me."

Sammy bit his lip as he considered the offer, then nodded his agreement. "OK, Dad."

"Let's put it somewhere safe, ok? Somewhere you feel safe. We'll practice some more with it a little later."

"OK, Dad. I will. Thanks, Dad," Sam said, gingerly taking the gun with one hand as he held it up with the other.

"Check the safety," John reminded him. Sam nodded as he looked the gun over, making sure the safety was in place. "Come on, let's go put it away and get on with our day."

Sam nodded, walking carefully with the loaded weapon as John followed, watching over him. The boys would be safe. Now he just needed to find out who or what was leaving opened presents on Mrs. D.'s back deck.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

John smelt the fresh scent of coffee as soon as he stepped out of the downstairs bathroom. He was only in his boxers, but instantly opted for the kitchen instead of his room to finish dressing.

"Thanks for the coffee, sport."

Dean just tilted his head to the side as if it was nothing. Which it wasn't. "So, what's the plan for today?" he asked, scratching his elbow.

"You mean apart from making my kids work out until they puke?" John replied drily, sipping his coffee.

"Yeah, after that," Dean nodded. With John, you could never be sure if he was kidding or not, so Dean figured he'd better play it safe.

"Uh-huh," John huffed. Cheeky brat. But the brat did know how he liked his coffee, so he'd grant him amnesty. For now. "Did you make a list of everything we need? I couldn't find it the other day."

"Yeah, it's in my room. I added some stuff earlier."

"Good. You boys need some fresh clothes. We'll stock up today."

Dean groaned loudly. "Can't you just shoot me now and get it over with? That would be more humane!"

"Nope," John grinned. Get yourself dressed and tell your brother we're leaving in ten.

"This day _blows_" Dean groused as he listlessly dragged his way out of the kitchen.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

The rest of Saturday went by as amicably as could be expected. The first stop was a light lunch and that put everyone in a good mood. When John was done eating he said, "Okay boys, listen up. Stevie and I made great progress last night - no Dean, I'm not sharing any details right now - but there's good news and bad. Bad news is Stevie sprained his ankle and needs to give it a rest 'til Monday. Which means you and me, Dean, can go practice with the crossbow in the morning. I think I've found a pretty good spot where we won't be disturbed."

"Awesome!" Dean exclaimed happily, grinning from ear to ear.

"For now, I thought maybe we could do something everyone might like," John said nudging Sammy, who smiled in anticipation of the idea.

"Like what, Dad?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Ohh, maybe a little racing? Over at the go-kart track?"

"Yeah!" Sammy exclaimed. They were on the road a lot and Dean had already started learning how to drive the Impala. Sam knew it would be a long time before he could handle such a big car and he relished every chance he got to drive - bumper cars, those old-fashioned cars on metal tracks at the amusement parks, go-karts. Anything would do as long as he could be in control for once.

"That would be cool! I'm gonna make you eat my dust, Dean!"

"Gotta be behind ya to do that, Sam, and I plan to be waiting for ya at the finish line."

"Yeah, we'll see!"

"Slow down, boys. Let's finish up here and get half the errands done first."

"Aww, Dad!" both boys said together.

"Don't aww me. Gotta pay to play. Let's get the clothes outta the way first, then we'll go, but we can't stay too long. There's grocery shopping to do to before I have to set out on Monday. It's a lot for one day, but we can do it. So I expect you boys to be on your best behaviour, understood?"

Sam sighed, but knew it wasn't worth complaining because Dad could just as easily decide not to take them if they acted up. "Yes, sir," Dean said, noticing the sour look on Sam's face. "We'll finish up," he said with a slight kick to Sam's shin under the table. Sam jumped, ready to yell out when he saw the look on Dean's face telling him to straighten up so they could hurry up and get to the fun part.

"Yeah, uh, yes, sir. I'm ready to go."

John found nothing put a fire under his boys like the promise of some traditional childhood activity like go-karts. There'd been a bit of bickering, as was to be expected, but all in all the boys behaved quite well, but John was still glad when it was over. No matter how many years had passed, doing this stuff without Mary still hurt like hell.

When they pulled up in the Impala outside their house, they were just in time to see Mrs. D. dramatically dump a black trash bag into the trash can outside her house. It John didn't know better, he'd say she'd timed it so she'd be seen doing this by the Winchesters. But no - that would be silly. John shook the thought from his head, but couldn't help but notice that the boys were taking unusually long to get out of the car. He couldn't blame them for trying to avoid her, but it wasn't a very adult thing to do. He was a grown man and _not_ going to hide away in his car.

"Get moving, boys," he ordered as he got out and opened the door to the back seat where he'd placed their shopping. The trunk was reserved for other things and he quickly surveyed the bags. "Dean, start putting the groceries away. Sammy, you're in charge of taking in the clothes. Leave the rest - I'll be with you in a minute." He handed his keys straight to Sam as the kids still hadn't moved. "That's an order."

As expected, the last sentence had them bustling alright and John sighed as he walked over to their neighbour. "How'd you do, Mrs. Donnelly?" John asked pleasantly, despite the sour look on her face.

"About as well as anyone who just spent the better part of the afternoon scrubbing blood from her porch." Mrs. D. didn't make eye-contact and looked genuinely pissed.

"Did the police find anything yet?" John asked amicably.

Mrs. Donnelly slammed the lid on the trashcan with disgust. She pulled her sweater tighter around herself as she lifted her chin in order to look down at John as much as her substantially lower height would allow. Glaring at him, she said nothing. Then she looked over as Sam and Dean moved about the car, pulling out bags, John's head turning with hers. "You know damn well what they found. Or at least, those boys of yours do." Both boys stopped in mid-stride as they noticed their sudden audience, the fear evident in Sam's eyes and the hate just as clear in Dean's. John's mouth became a thin line as he watched the exchange, his annoyance at the accusing neighbor growing by the second, his uncertainty about the boys starting to take root.

"I'm sure the police will figure it out, Mrs. Donnelly," he said at last. "If I can help in any way…"

"I think you've done quite enough, Winchester. Or should I say, you clearly haven't done nearly enough."

"Right. Of course. Well, what would you have me do, Mrs. Donnelly? I already checked with my boys and they said they had nothing to do with it."

"And you believed them."

"Yes, Mrs. Donnelly. I trust my boys."

The old woman harrumphed as she looked past John once again at what she knew were her prime suspects. "I don't trust them," she said as she pointed, "...and I don't trust you, Winchester." He finger turned to him as its new target. "You know what I do trust? My instincts. 25 years as a teacher, you really think I didn't learn a thing or two about how their minds work?"

John shifted in place as he half thought about his next words, but he found he couldn't fully contain them. "Do you have children, Mrs. Donnelly?"

At that, the woman pulled at her sweater once again. "I don't know what that has to do with anything, Winchester."

"Well, see if you have children, then you know they all have their tell, when they're lying? See the kids don't usually recognize it but the parent? They do. We don't always call them on it, you see. Gotta give them room to own up to their own mistakes and take the consequences of those mistakes. I'm sure as a teacher you recognize the importance of teaching moments. Sometimes you gotta give them room to make the more mature decisions. They don't always make the right call because they _are_ children, after all. But it's our job as the parent to guide them. Correct them. Protect them," John said with a particular emphasis on the last part. "From any _thing_ and any _one_ that might want to hurt them in any way. I know my children, Mrs. Donnelly, and I too trust my instincts. You know what my instincts are saying right now?"

Mrs. Donnelly would only glare as she waited for John to continue.

"My instincts are telling me that you have had it in for my boys ever since we arrived. That no matter what they do - good or bad - you will only see them as juvenile delinquents with no sense of discipline. But you would be wrong, Mrs. Donnelly. Those boys are good boys. Sure sometimes they get off track, but they do not respond well to judgmental old bitties who can't be bothered to return a gawddamned baseball that lands in her yard."

John pushed closer to the fence as he spoke, his voice going lower as he continued, the invisible force of his words pushing Mrs. Donnelly further and further back. "I assure you I have my boys well in hand and I would appreciate it - since you cannot provide proof of your claims - if you would keep your accusations to yourself. Maybe you should instead be glad it was only a possum you found on your deck," John finished slowly.

The woman gasped at the perceived threat, then narrowed her eyes as she stood straighter in defiance of the towering hunter, but still she refused to speak further.

"Now," John smiled as he stepped back to give Mrs. D. a little room to breathe. "if you will excuse me, I've gotta go get these boys inside. It's getting late. You have a good evening." John could feel the old woman's eyes boring into his back as he turned to gather his kids and get out of the line of her mental fire. "Come on, boys. Get the lead out."

Helping them lug the last of the bags to the house, John held the door open and ushered his boys inside, avoiding the woman's glare. When everything and everyone was safely inside, he gave Mrs. D. the most sincere smile he could muster and a curt nod before stepping inside himself, leaving her with her suspicions in the chill of the evening air.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Sunday was a rare chance for the Winchester men to relax and what better way to do that than to learn a new life-saving skill - crossbow for Dean, gun training for Sammy. John knew he would need to actually borrow a target, so he had gone in search of a place to find one for Dean to use. Practicing with guns was so much easier - all you needed was some empty cans or bottles, or pretty much anything else that made a noise when it shattered to pieces. However, with Mrs. Donnelly keeping a particularly close watch on his house right now, John was not going to be doing any of these things in his own back yard. After his admittedly steely words to his nagging neighbor, he thought it better to get the boys up bright and early and hustle them out to a local target practice area.

He had bribed the owner to open early, appealing to the man's belief in the right to bear arms - even for children as young as Sam. The man was easily convinced as he had found John's military style parenting to be a refreshing change from the permissive parenting he was seeing more and more of these days. He had watched one too many indulging dads and moms stand back as their know-it-all brats disobeyed the rules of his establishment. He eventually would have to toss them out, referring them to the posh club on the other side of town that was only too happy to turn a blind eye to the destructive patterns being set by their ignorance of the rules of proper weapon handling. He could see right away that John Winchester respected the power of the weapons and was teaching his sons the same respect. This was how you created a safer society.

"I'm sorry I disappointed you the other day, champ," John said as they started setting things up for crossbow practice. "I didn't mean to make it seem like it wasn't important to me. It was. It is."

Dean took longer than necessary testing the sturdiness of the string and checking and rechecking the scope as John watched the boy chafe under the direct attention. Dean could handle criticism and his dad's seemingly frequent chastisements. But he was always awkward under his dad's loving gaze, craving it and wary of it at the same time as if it were a fragile butterfly that could only be seen and never touched lest it die instantly.

"I know, Dad," Dean replied, quickly glancing at John before lowering his eyes in deference to the alpha male. Bringing him to the range had been enough to remind Dean of his priority in his dad's eyes. Talking about it may be more than he could handle. And if his dad didn't quit staring at him with that goofy smile on his face, he was afraid he'd turn into a pillar of salt and blow away.

"You know I just want to protect you boys. Make sure you are safe. I love you."

Dean bristled at the declaration, but a brief smile graced the corner of his lips. He was happy to have the quiet moment with John to himself for once while Sammy was off chasing down a Coke from a vending machine. "I know, Dad. Thanks," was the best he could do for a reply right now and he could still feel John smiling at him even then. For a short time, he felt normal, if not having a mom could ever be normal. He felt like he had imagined all the other boys he had met at school after school must have felt having at least one parent embarrassing them with their attention. It was nice. It was comforting. The warmth of the moment ran throughout his body, causing him to shudder, but forcing him to stand with a pride he did not often feel worthy of - the pride of a boy who knew his father was proud of him. He wished he could have this John all the time. It was then that Dean remembered his and Sammy's recent foray into the neighbor's yard and suddenly he didn't feel so deserving of his father's affection anymore. His proud stance began to wilt under the weight of the unconfessed sin.

John came up behind him to check his form and the distance of the target before him. "Stand up straighter, now, Dean. Arm up. You had it just a second ago, son."

"Uh, sorry, Dad. I know. I can do it." And just like that, Dean shifted back to proving himself, striving to earn his father's love and praise. "That's it, son. Check your crosshairs. You don't want to be perfectly straight because the arrow is going to arc. Pay attention to the trigger. Every crossbow is different with a slightly different feel to the trigger."

Dean nodded as he took in all the directions. He peeped through the scope as he honed in on the target. Mrs. Donnelly's face came back to his mind. Maybe he could imagine her…

"Good, Dean!" John exclaimed. "You're aiming a little low, but not bad for your first time. Let's do it again." Dean steadied the bow and shot again. And again. John insisted on him taking small breaks periodically since the weight of the crossbow tended to throw off accuracy if you didn't take moments to rest.

"Take a minute, Dean."

"Dad, I can do it…"

"Dean. A minute, son. Just take a minute, ok?"

Shoulders falling, Dean replied, "Yes, sir." He lowered the weapon, his fingers itching to get back to practice.

"Where the hell is Sammy," John suddenly asked, looking around but not really worried. It was clear the owner didn't let too much get past him. John was pretty sure that included nine-year-olds who were jonesing for a caffeine high.

Still he was grateful when, on cue, Sammy came bouncing back to their lane, open Coke in hand and the corner of some nondescript bag of candy sticking out of his pocket. Dean snickered to himself. He was pretty sure Sam thought he was hiding the candy from him, but Dean would show him later just how astute he was. John merely shook his head. "Took long enough, boy."

"I was watching the cops on the other end."

"What? What cops?"

"I don't know, Dad. I didn't exactly catch their names," Sam said, rolling his eyes without thinking. The silence he was greeted with caused Sammy to focus on his dad for the first time since he had returned to their lane. He saw Dean behind their father slowly shaking his head and drawing a thumb from ear to ear as he gave his momentarily insane little brother the international symbol for, "You're dead."

"I...I mean, I don't know, sir," Sam corrected, his eyes finding his father's now and confirming that Dean might have been right in his assumption. "I just saw they had on shirts that said Fullerton PD, that's all."

John merely squinted at the flippant boy, his nod both affirming Sam's explanation and warning him that he had gotten off - this time. Even with his military background, John was never 100% comfortable having police in the vicinity. But the last thing he was going to do was draw attention to them by reminding Sam of the proper way for boys to speak to their fathers. He was already wary of the attention his family had already received thanks to the old woman next door.

Looking down the unwalled lanes next to them, John tried to see if he could locate the officers. Fullerton was a small town. John didn't know if the police had a firing range at their station, but even if they did, it made sense they might opt to come to an outdoor range like this from time to time, too. He just would have preferred not to have run into any of them that day.

"I doubt they're paying any attention to anyone else, Dad," Dean said, trying to quell any of his father's brewing concerns, though about what, he wasn't yet sure. It was just always in John's nature to be suspicious of police and Dean didn't want their day to be ruined.

"Maybe," John replied. "Maybe."

"What? What is it, Dad?" Dean asked, looking down the lanes now trying to see what his dad might have been focused on. His own concerns were starting to take hold. Was it possible there was more going on than he was aware of? Nervousness began to rise in Dean as he looked at Sammy, whose face was starting to lose some color in response to the reactions coming from the older Winchesters. Did Dad suspect?

John turned to Dean, the wheels clearly turning in his brain though he wasn't prepared to share all of his thoughts just yet.

"Dean, are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?" Dean's eyebrows shot up in answer, but he kept his lips sealed. "About Mrs. Donnelly maybe?"

John looked over at Sam now, who had suddenly lost interest in his Coke. "Boys, you can tell me if she said anything to you that she shouldn't have. I know it's been hard living next door to her. She's always accusing you of things and...well, if she's harassing you when I'm not around, I need you to tell me. I can handle her."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks, not sure what to make of their father's words - was he truly wondering how they were being treated by Mrs. D. in his absence or was he trying to get them to admit to committing what would amount to being an atrocity in the eyes of their strict father?

"Um, we're ok, Dad, really. She's a pain in the ass…"

"Dean…"

"Um, a pain in the butt, but we're ok. Honest."

John drew up straighter as he considered the words of his older son. It was important that he be able to trust the boys in everything, including telling him when some other adult was making trouble for them in any way. He knew the boys could be troublemakers themselves, but he believed their relationship was strong enough to withstand any truth - the kind of truth that would earn the boys assess redder than a baboon, if so warranted, or even the kind that might reveal them to be more vulnerable than either boy would normally be willing to admit. He knew the boys were doing all they could to be grownup and he hated that he had put them in such a position. But they had to know it was ok to need John's help and protection. "You'd tell me the truth, right boys?"

After the briefest moments of silence, the boys carefully replied,"Yes, sir."

"We'd tell you if she were bothering us," Dean was sure to add. Sam looked at him with uncertainty, but opted not to say anything further so the truth of that moment could indeed be true.

"OK," John said at last, temporarily placated. "OK. You've had enough of a break, Dean. Let's shoot a few more then we'll set things up for Sammy to try his hand with the .45. We're going to have to get out of here soon and pick up something to eat. You boys got school tomorrow."

John was certain he could then start making a plan to figure out exactly how to solve a problem like Mrs. Donnelly.


	6. Chapter 6

Monday morning came and John stepped outside in his bathrobe to fetch the newspaper after ushering the boys to school. John was glad he didn't "accidentally" get pounced on by Mrs. D., but she got to him nonetheless. She was right there, on the front page of the newspaper - below the fold but front page nonetheless - staring at him with her cold, accusing eyes. The headline read "Animal Remains Thought Ritualistic Sacrifice." What caught John's attention, however, was the black-and-white picture of the "sacrifice." John could have sworn he'd seen those symbols only recently, but he couldn't quite place them yet. They looked too familiar… but somehow misplaced and out of context.

He quietly shut the door and checked the salt line before sitting down for a second cup of coffee and resumed reading the article:

_***Local resident Clara Donnelly, 63, awoke Friday morning to a grisly discovery on her back deck. The retired schoolteacher said she opened her back door at about 5:30 a.m. to let her cat out for the morning and was startled by the bloodied remains of a possum. "It was disgusting," Donnelly explained. "Somebody cut the heart out of it and left it on my deck. My cat could have gotten a hold of that nasty thing. I'm an old woman and it is a disgrace how some people treat the elderly in this town."_

_When asked, Donnelly said she believed she knew who was responsible for the act and would only share her suspicions with police. "The guilty parties will be brought to justice. I will make sure of that," she said. Detectives Joseph Riley and Toby Henderson were called to the scene where the butchered animal was said to have been placed inside a chalk circle filled with unknown symbols and surrounded by four white candles. "It appears to be some sort of ritualistic sacrifice," according to Henderson. "But we cannot rule out juvenile pranks or some sort of revenge scenario." Det. Riley would only confirm that all possible suspects in the case are being interviewed, but he confirmed that neighbors and immediate acquaintances of the victim were questioned. "We ask if anyone believes they may have witnessed something that can be helpful to contact the Fullerton Police Department."***_

John squinted at the pictures above the article. One was of Mrs. Donnelly holding her beloved cat. The other was a now-empty chalk circle that still featured the slightly smudgy remains of some sort of symbols. John tilted his head as he studied the image, the recollection of which was just beyond his mind's reach. He went in search of the next best thing.

John found and opened his journal, thumbing through the pages. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. The entry in question was about how he had killed his first Wendigo. His research had led him to discover some ancient yet powerful Anasazi symbols used by the Lenai Lenape, or Delaware Indians. John reached for the newspaper and put the front page with the picture of the "ritual" next to his journal on the table.

He studied the symbols closely. Three of the four were a direct match, the fourth was an inverted pentagram. "Son of a bitch!" John cursed. Although he believed in the Supernatural, he did _not_ believe in coincidences, and - since they were not currently in Delaware Indian territory - how big were the chances that a fellow hunter, one of the only types of people who would even _have_ this kind of information, was close by? No, it was much more likely that _someone_ had used this very page. John let out a loud groan. There really was only one explanation for this: Dean must be the culprit behind the dead possum on Mrs D.'s back porch. It was all there – motive, opportunity, equipment, and – most likely – partner in crime.

John felt his blood boil. Unable to just _sit_ there any longer, he stood up and started to pace the small kitchen. As much as he hated to admit it so himself, it made _sense_ that it was Dean. He knew his kid hated the old biddy next door, and to be honest he could see where the kid was coming from, he really did – but retaliating like this? John was fairly sure that the possum had already been dead – or at least he fucking hoped so, because right now he really didn't trust himself to be sure about anything anymore.

How could Dean have done this? And most likely he had dragged Sammy into it too, though Sammy didn't get easily dragged into places he did not want to be. It was just so stupid – drawing attention to themselves like this had _literally_ brought the cops knocking at their front door. John didn't need that kind of hassle and he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Dean knew how he felt about this.

Dean. John's thoughts spiralled and he had a hard time controlling his temper. He was really glad the brat wasn't here right now, to give him time to calm down, think about this rationally, and not just go ape-shit. _Think rationally,_ John snorted at the mere thought. How was he, as the boy's _father_, supposed to stay rational when clearly the kid was spinning out of control? And after such a great weekend, too. All this time, here he was worried about what Mrs. D. may have been saying to his children. He had _asked_ them at least twice if there was anything he should know. He had defended them not just because they were his children to always defend, but because he was so certain they were innocent of her outrageous accusations. That was what added fuel to John's fire. The boys didn't know everything that had been said to John, but John knew they could tell something was up and that John was in serious Papa Bear mode because of it.

John felt the strong urge to punch something, but settled for a controlled breathing exercise instead. He stood at the table and picked up his journal. John scratched his chin and re-read his notes. When placed in a circular pattern, the Anasazi symbols were a strong protection against evil. John rolled his eyes and thought, "_Protection against evil my ass!_ It was one thing that the boys had decided to do this right under his nose – but now they were downright _mocking_ his work. John felt his blood boil. Dean _must_ have gone over his journal.

John huffed. Clearly his journal was popular reading material these days as Sammy had read it only a few months back. Sure, it _had_ made life easier for John afterwards, as he didn't have to pretend to be a traveling salesman any more, but he had also given Sammy quite the spanking for not respecting other people's privacy. Clearly Dean also needed a firm reminder about that particular rule.

For now, John needed a distraction; something to help him calm down while he considered his boys' fates. Menial tasks always helped him to clear his head. It was something he'd learned in the Marines. Of course, back then he'd mouthed off to his Serge, which had earned him the "fun" task of polishing the dirty boots of his entire regiment. Twice. Now he found something relaxing about repetitive tasks, so he decided to go put on a load of laundry.

In the bathroom, John knelt on the floor and started to sort out the clothes in the hamper. Normally doing laundry was an added headache because they would eventually need to find and waste precious time at a laundromat to get the job done, a task that would inevitably fall onto Dean. But this time John had lucked out with a place that was actually not only equipped with a washer and dryer, but on the second floor _and_ in the main bathroom, no less, which was actually large enough to accommodate it. How the owners managed to do that and not include a coffeemaker, he didn't know, but John wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth.

He was about half-way done stuffing clothes into the machine when an item suddenly caught his attention. The shirt was dark blue, and it had a large, dark stain on the front. John knew instantly what it was – blood. It looked like dead man's blood. Or, more likely, dead possum's blood. The shirt was not too big, not too small, but in-between. Without a doubt it belonged to Dean.

Deciding to give his knees a break, John sat down on the floor instead. Wearily, he rubbed his cheek. What the _hell_ was he gonna do about that boy of his?

OoO oOo OoO oOo

When Dean and Sam returned home from school, John wasn't home. There was no note on the fridge, so the boys knew to expect him home soon. They set up their homework at the kitchen table and got to work. Twenty minutes later, Sammy had to make a pit-stop in his room to fetch some books and was just on his way back down the stairs when he heard the tell-tale sign of John's keys rattling in the lock of the front door. John Winchester's bellowing voice came booming in.

"Boys!" A moment later, both his sons came bouncing into the front of the house, one in hot pursuit of the other. Dean came from the direction of the kitchen and won the race easily. He came to a stop in front of his Dad with a huge grin across his face. The moment he saw who was standing outside on their porch his face settled into a frown instead. He instinctively took a slippery step back. Both boys automatically took their shoes off when they came inside the house. It was something Mary had taught Dean. It made a fun game when running through a house with wooden floors in stocking feet, but could get a kid hurt too.

Sammy hit the floor with a loud _thump!_ behind him, his books clattering to the ground around him.

John and Dean looked around as one, but it was Dean's hand that shot out first to help him back on his feet.

"Sammy, are you okay?" the older Winchesters asked, concerned.

Sam accepted Dean's hand to help him up, but scowled up at him like only a disgruntled nine-year-old could. "Watch where you're going, you big oaf!" he said with all the indignation he could muster.

"Sorry. Didn't see ya there, shrimp," Dean said, looking sheepish, his ears slightly pink as he felt rather than saw John's disapproving glare rest on him.

"Well, now you can see for yourself what I mean," old Mrs. Donnelly said tartly.

"You did that on purpose," Sammy groused at Dean. He balled his small hand into a fist and pummelled his brother as hard as he could, but the older boy easily danced away from him. He placed one hand on Sammy's head and held him there. That pretty much put an end to the fight as Sammy knew from experience that – try as he might – his limbs were no match for his brother.

"Boys." It was uncanny, how much John could say with just one little word.

Both boys knew the sound of _that_ particular tone only too well – it was usually followed by the sound of smacking and yelping, and never bode well. They instantly straightened their shoulders and stood at attention.

"I'd like to get this matter settled once and for all. You boys heard about the dead possum?" The adults glared at the boys expectantly. John had only opened the door and quickly stepped inside to call the boys. He had no intention of inviting Mrs. D. inside, so he had returned back out onto the porch.

"So? What about it?" Dean asked suspiciously, crossing his arms across his chest and casually leaning against the doorframe of the front door, creating a sort of natural barrier between the boys inside and the grown-ups outside.

"Well," John replied casually. Mrs. Donnelly here seems to think it was the two of you. _Naturally,_ I told her she must have you confused with someone else. Because I raised respectful boys, not hooligans."

"That's right," Dean said with a shrug. "Wasn't us, right Sammy?"

Sam shook his head and muttered, "Uh-uh."

John's mien remained pleasant, but on the inside he felt an ice-cold hand rip his insides out. The kid had lied straight to his face. There was no tell; not as much as the blink of an eye. John watched both boys closely. Right now, he couldn't tell if little Sammy was lying or telling the truth, because he hadn't actually _said_ anything. He did notice that the kid edged a little closer to his brother though. A moment ago he'd been itching for a fight, but now he looked like he was craving his big brother's protection, which in itself was not unusual. John's eyes went to study Dean, but to his surprise, the kid's bright green eyes were already trained on him. _Challenging_ him.

"Sir?" Dean looked straight at him. "Can we go back to do our homework now?"

John dismissed his boys with a nod. "Sure," he said jovially, although in his mouth his words tasted like bile. Mrs. D. looked like she'd bitten into a lemon, and in truth, John really couldn't blame her. But these were _his_ kids, _his_ responsibility, and he really didn't need this kind of attention. "You heard it for yourself, Mrs. Donnelly – my boys are innocent. Just like I told you."

She took a pack of cigarettes from her cardigan pocket and shook one free. She lit it and took a long, frustrated draw. After a moment, she released the smoke through her nostrils and John somewhat understood why the boys sometimes referred to her as "the old dragon."

John stayed outside long enough not to seem suspicious and did his best to nudge her into the direction of some other unlucky kids. He was really itching to get back inside, but he'd waited all day for the boys to come home. He would just have to wait a little longer.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

John leant back against the kitchen counter, hands resting on the countertop. He'd read in a magazine once long ago that it was important to keep an "open" body language when talking to your kids. God, the stuff Mary had made him read when Dean was little.

He studied the boys for a while, but they didn't seem too concerned and just continued doing their homework. John cleared his throat.

"Okay, listen up, boys. We need to talk about Mrs. Donnelly and what happened at her place the other night."

Both boys looked up from their work; Sammy looked concerned, but Dean looked downright pissed. "What about it?" the older boy snapped.

"Excuse me?" John could _not_ believe the attitude this snot-nosed kid was throwing at him today.

"How come every time that old cow next door thinks she smells a fart, you come reading _us_ the riot act?"

Sam gave him a swift kick to the shin under the table. Dean pulled a face, but didn't retaliate.

"Dean – we're talking about leaving cut-up animals on an old lady's porch, not some practical joke. This is serious, so you'd better shape up and show some respect." John glowered at the kid, but Dean just sullenly stared down at his homework. John decided to change direction, so he added, "And Samuel – donkeys kick, not little boys – are we clear?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, Dean," Sammy mumbled obediently.

"You have something to say, too, Dean?"

Dean just huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Dean – last warning. Can it with the attitude," John said, voice a deep growl.

"I didn't _do_ anything!" Dean snapped, anger flashing in his green eyes.

"Oh, so I guess that _wasn't_ dead possum blood all over _your_ shirt I found in the laundry basket this morning – is that what you're saying?"

Sam and Dean exchanged quick glances. Those two stuck together like glue, especially when one – or both of them – was in trouble of the capital T kind. Sam had been just about to open his mouth, but when he saw the look Dean gave him he closed it immediately.

"I asked you a question." John was not typically the sort to spank first and ask questions later, but he'd be lying to himself if he said that idea didn't cross his mind right then.

"Why are you doing the laundry? Isn't that _my_ job?" Dean rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth as he stubborn crossed his arms. "What does it matter, anyway?" Dean spat back. The kid looked angry and defiant – and about as far away from sorry as one boy in trouble could be.

John mentally counted to ten to try to stop himself from throttling the brat. He could tell that _something_ was brewing here – hell, he'd been feeling it for a while – but he just couldn't understand the level of _hate_ Dean seemed to harbor for that old woman. John reigned in his anger and tried to be the adult here. "You've lost me – what does _what_ matter, Dean? The laundry?"

"If we did it or not," Dean replied slowly, as if his father was daft "We're still going to get the blame."

"You know that's not true, Dean," John replied with all the patience he could muster.

Both boys looked at him incredulously, then at each other.

John straightened up. Truth be told, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up – what the hell was going on here? His boys didn't challenge his authority like that. It just didn't happen.

"You boys think I've been unfair – is that what's going on here?" Damnit – he'd _defended_ the boys – both to Mrs. D. _and_ the cops – and that on good faith alone. How could they just throw an accusation like that in his face?

Dean and Sammy exchanged knowing looks. Sam shrugged his shoulders and Dean rolled his eyes in response to their father's obvious ignorance.

"Look, either of you care to explain how the situation could ESCALATE like this?" John said, feeling his palm itch again in annoyance.

Sam looked up at Dean, but Dean's lips were pressed shut in an angry line. "Because she's been getting us in trouble ever since we moved here?" Sammy hedged, playing nervously with his pencil and repeatedly tapping the rubber end of it on the table.

John leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, looking at his sons expectantly. "I explicitly _asked_ you boys if there were any problems yesterday. Why weren't you two honest with me then?"

The room went eerily quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the rubber end of Sam's pencil tapping against the table. John placed his hand gently over Sam's to make him stop.

"Cause it wouldn't change a damned thing," the sullen teenage boy slouching in the kitchen chair muttered.

John closed his eyes and rubbed a weary hand over his face, massaging his right temple with his thumb. That boy would be the death of him. "Dean – believe it or not, but you boys are in enough trouble here as is, and you're attitude _really_ isn't helping."

"Like there's _any_ attitude I could have that would help me with the old _bitch_ next door!" Dean jumped up to lean on the table as he made another challenging move toward his father, being smart enough, however, to keep the table between them.

"Damn it, Dean! Unless you want to eat some soap, I'd better not hear _that_ word out of your mouth again, are we clear?" John hadn't moved, even when his son stood up like he wanted to make a move on him. Didn't need to. He narrowed his eyes and scowled at Dean, who looked anything but contrite.

"Yes. Sir," Dean spat back, and that last word sounded anything but respectful. Dean threw his weight back into the chair, arms crossing yet again as he attempted to keep his dad at some sort of distance.

"Dean!" Sammy hissed, looking at his brother with huge brown eyes in disbelief. But his warning came too late.

"That's IT!" John slammed an open palm down on the table and stood up. He grabbed Dean by the biceps,hauling the teen back up again and over to the kitchen counter. John switched hands, so he was holding Dean with his left, and opened a drawer with his right. Once again he reached for the sturdy wooden spatula.

"I've really tried to be patient with you here, Dean, but clearly there's only _one_ way to get through to you today!" He stepped around to Dean's other side and tipped the kid forward so he was bent all the way over the counter. Tightly securing Dean's hand behind his back, John pulled him snug to his side, and applied wood to denim-clad butt.

His son's reaction was instant. The first couple of whacks had him hissing, arching his back, and on his toes, but as the spanking continued rapidly and with no apparent end in sight, he soon started to be more vocal. John made sure to give _all_ parts of Dean's backside some of his attention, and the spatula offered quite the large surface. Three whacks were enough to cover a good part of Dean's buttocks, sit spots and upper thigh, then it was time to proceed to the other side. A bit like using his own hand, but without the nasty sting. John found he quite approved of his newly found equipment.

After he'd kept the spanking up for about three solid minutes, John needed to give his shoulder a rest. He pulled the kid up so he could make eye contact. As soon as it was released, the kid's hand shot back to rub at his butt. In that position, the right side always got it worse, being in the supreme spanking position, so to speak.

"Stop that," John ordered harshly, snatching Dean up to a semi-standing position. "It's _supposed_ to hurt. Now look at me."

Dean gulped and looked up miserably. His face was tear-struck, but he still looked stubborn as hell. John had to control himself from bending the kid straight back over and starting in on round two. But he didn't know what kind of effect he was having back there, so it wouldn't do to give in to his temper.

"Pack your things, go to your room, find a corner, and put your nose in it. If I hear one more disrespectful word out of you today, the last spanking I gave you will look like a walk in the park. Got it?"

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Sam couldn't say for sure if his brother had answered, but he really hoped he had. Once the spanking started and the terrible noise filled the room, he had crossed his arms on the table and buried his head down as far as it would go. It was incredibly loud – both the whacking sound the spatula made when it connected to Dean's denim-clad butt and Dean as he cried out in pain and discomfort, despite the seemingly protective padding.

Deep down, Sammy knew they'd been very bad, knew that Dean had been bad, but surely _that_ kind of punishment was uncalled for? The nine-year-old dreaded being put over his father's knee, and he knew deep down that he would be next, but he really, really hoped that Dad wouldn't use that evil-looking thing on him. Not that Dean was doing anything at all to stop Dad from going apeshit on both their butts.

Sam slowly raised his head and peeked over at Dean's side of the table. Without looking at John or Sam, Dean closed his textbook on his unfinished math homework with force and started to collect his utensils.

"And Dean – lose the jeans and the attitude while you're at it." Dad was barking orders in his military voice again. Sammy studied Dean from under his bangs.

"Yes, sir," Dean spat, face now set in a solid frown, unshed tears glistening in his angry eyes.

John noticed with irritation the look of awe on his youngest son's face at Dean's ability to throw an obvious temper tantrum right after getting his ass handed to him, and John's face matched Dean's with a frown of his own.

Dean didn't pay them any heed, grabbed his stuff, clutched them to his chest, and headed out of the room.

Sam cast a worried look at his father, who looked like he might just blow a gasket, and for the tiniest of fractions, Sammy saw John as a cartoon-teapot – one hand resting like a handle on his hip, the other still holding the spatula all spout-like and Sammy figured it really wouldn't take long for his father to start giving off steam, too. He quickly cleared his throat to hide what could have been his last giggle in this world if he wasn't careful, and he bent his head back down and tried to control himself.

It was hard to concentrate though, with his I'm-a-little-teapot-of-death father fuming on one side of the kitchen, and Dean's heavy stomps echoing from the hallway upstairs. Sammy couldn't help but wince when he heard the distinct sound of a door being slammed shut by an irate Winchester. The house didn't _literally_ shake, but it was close.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Upon hearing the door slam shut, John again reached for the wooden utensil and was just about to go after his older wayward son when he stopped dead in his tracks and looked down. Sammy had completely wrapped himself around John's legs and although he could have easily shaken him off, the softly whispered, "Daddy, please don't," made him stop and think.

"Samuel." John tried to be hard, but how could he be cross when his baby was trying to protect his brother? "You're too old to be acting like this, so straighten up."

Reluctantly, Sammy untangled himself from John's legs and slid down to stand on the floor. He quickly hung his head and studied his mismatched socks.

John let out a sigh and tousled the kid's hair. At once, Sammy leaned closer and cuddled into his side. John knew his baby was crying, probably had been since the second he'd started in on Dean. Sammy was a sensitive little guy for sure. "Okay, Sammy. I guess you're right. Both Dean and I need to calm down before we can proceed here. You ready to answer some of my questions? Like a big boy?"

"Yes, sir," Sammy mumbled between sniffs.

"Okay, so sit back down again." John gently nudged the boy back to his chair and sat down where Dean had been sitting. "Alright then, report. From the beginning."

Sam rubbed his sleeve across his face and tried to think what Dean would do. The real Dean. Not bratty Dean. It was hard to know where to start.

"How long had you boys been planning this?" John could see Sam wanted to talk, maybe he could speed things along with a little nudging.

Over the next few minutes he got the story out, little by little. How they'd been in the yard, first working, then messing about and how the old neighbour had told them off just for _being_ there, as Sam put it. At this part he scowled and looked up at John. "Why is she _always_ telling us what to do? She's got no _right_ to yell at us all the time."

"I've told you to be respectful to Mrs. Donnelly before, Sam, and-"

"But that's not fair! She's never respectful to _us_!" Sam shot back heatedly. "We never did _anything_ to-"

"Keep your voice down, Samuel. It's not nice to shout." Apparently, just mentioning old Mrs. D. was like waving a red flag in front of either of his kids.

"You shout at us all the time, and when you're not there, _she_ is there shouting at us, and we get another earful when you come back and-"

"Enough!" John watched Sam flap his arms like a befuddled albatross, the way he always did when he found himself completely frustrated and lost for words.

"But Dad - she's had it in for us ever since we moved here," Sam continued in a lower tone, trying to argue his side.

"That's not the point here, Samuel," John said, forcing himself to be patient.

"Yes, it is!"

"Excuse me? You gonna talk to me the same way your brother did? 'Cause in that case let me warn you – that ain't gonna end well for you either!" John Winchester was _not_ the sort of man who liked to repeat himself.

"I know, sir," Sammy tried to find the right words here, but it wasn't easy with Dad giving him his death glare. "But please hear me out."

John studied the kid for a moment, letting him stew and rethink his manners. Then he nodded his consent.

"Even with the possum… she's still gotten us in more trouble since we moved here than we caused her." He knew Dad would probably disagree, but he was still right!

"How's that, Samuel? You know I've got you kids' backs on this."

"Not from the start," Sammy said quietly, looking down at his hands.

John scratched his chin. "So you boys are still sore about that?"

Sammy's silence spoke volumes, but John still insisted on a verbal response. After a while, Sammy got fidgety, but no less feisty. "She got us into trouble _all the time_ and you kept yelling at Dean for no reason and-"

"I know, Samuel," John interrupted his son's tirade. "And I dealt with the issue. Weeks ago," he added for special emphasis.

Sammy just shrugged his shoulders and wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Alright, all cards on the table, Samuel. I can see there's something you're not telling me here."

Sammy blushed and ducked his head. "You're a lot nicer to her than you are to us."

John had to try hard to stifle a groan. Sometimes the "logic" of his kids was somewhat lost on him. "Samuel, I'm _polite_ to her, because that's how you're supposed to behave towards your neighbors. She's a retired old lady – I'm not gonna go over and yell at her because she's bitter and lonely. She just wants to talk to people and it's probably the only way she knows how."

"Oh," Sammy said, sounding somewhat perplexed.

"Let me guess – you two geniuses were so set on seeing her as the wicked witch you never stopped to think that she's an actual person?"

Sammy put his right hand to his mouth and started biting on one of his nails. "Why do you always take her side?"

John could just about _feel_ his hair turning grey at that one. "For the last time, Samuel," John said exasperatedly, "I am not taking sides. Little boys should _not_ be waging feuds with old ladies. End of story. Why is it so hard for you to understand that you're in the wrong here? Hm? You're a smart kid, we both know that. Why is it so hard for you to say you were wrong and you screwed up? Because believe me, kiddo, you screwed up big time here. And we haven't even gotten to the bad part yet. It's about time you shut your mouth and listen, understood?"

Sam stopped biting his nail and lowered his hand, as he looked down at his lap. "Yes, sir."

"Now, there are still a few loose ends I'd like to tie up here. When did Dean take my journal? You both know that's private and off-limits for both of you."

Sammy straightened up and looked at him aghast. "We didn't _touch_ your journal. Honest!"

"Then where did those symbols come from that you used in your little ritual, hm?"

"The Anasazi symbols?" Sammy asked as he scrunched up his nose. "You had Dean write those out about a million times for mouthing off at you. They're in his brain forever!" He looked at John closely. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"Never mind what I forgot, I'm asking the questions, boy. And unless you want to skip straight to the spanking part, you _will_ can it with the attitude. That's three, Samuel" John growled back and looked at him expectantly.

"Wait! That's not fair! You can't just go to three – what happened to one and two?"

"I gave you plenty of warnings, you just wouldn't heed them."

Sammy tucked his legs up on the chair and curled up into a protective ball. He looked close to tears.

"Bit late too feel sorry for yourself now, kiddo," John said pointedly. "Now tell me where did you find the possum? And I sure hope it was already dead."

The look on Sam's face read utter disgust. "Of course it was dead – we found it under a pile of leaves in the recycling bag. Dean figured it went there to die in peace, like cats do?"

"Well, there wasn't much peace to be found with you two hellraisers close by," John sighed. Getting to the truth of this mess was worse than pulling teeth. "Okay, so who had the great idea to cut the damned thing open?"

"Dean," Sammy admitted softly. "Because she didn't have one," he added as an afterthought.

For a moment, John wondered why the old lady would _want_ a disemboweled possum in the first place, but then the penny dropped. "She didn't have a heart so you gave her that of a dead critter? Are you shitting me?" John really couldn't help himself – that last part just came out as one loud yell. He stood up abruptly and started to pace the kitchen.

John turned away from his young troublemaker and tried to control his temper. At least that was the last part. He now had all the puzzle pieces together and it was time to lay down the law. He heard a sniff behind his back and turned back with a sigh. Sammy was crying again. John made a mental note to make sure to get some juice into the kid before he dehydrated himself crying. He crossed over to Sam's side of the table, rested his butt against it and pulled Sammy in for a hug. He let him cry for a bit, knowing he'd have to get it out of his system eventually. After a few minutes, when John felt his kid had calmed down a little, he tilted his head back and asked, "You ready to face the consequences for what you did, or do you need some downtime in the corner first?"

Sam shook his head. "No, sir. 'M good."

"Alright then," John reached across the table and picked up the wooden spatula.

"Sir – you're not gonna use that, are you?" Sammy squeaked in dismay as he looked up at him with his big puppy dog eyes. John pushed the kid back in his seat so he could look at him properly. This was important.

"Let's look at your list of infractions here, Samuel, shall we? You lied to me. Repeatedly. I gave you plenty of opportunities to come clean about what you did, but you denied it every time." John gave that line a little time to sink in before he continued. "You snuck out of the house, in the middle of the night, probably way past your bedtime to go crawling around in the dark. Which is dangerous, as you know."

"I wasn't up past my bedtime," Sammy was fast to interject. "You said I could stay up and watch the movie but-"

"But you got scared, so Dean turned it off. Now, if I'd been home that night, don't you think I would have put you to bed then, hm?"

"Oh. I didn't think of it that way," Sammy said sadly.

"There are quite a few things you didn't think about here, aren't there, hm? I still can't believe you boys actually did this. You should know that what you did was wrong."

"Oh, we knew _that_."

John looked at him incredulously. "But you did it anyway because you thought your behavior was justified?"

"Just-what?"

"Justified, Samuel. It means you thought you were in the right."

"Oh. Uh-huh," Sam nodded, furrowing his brow and clearly filing that piece of information away safely for another time.

John sighed inwardly. How could his otherwise so smart kid end up doing something so dumb? "So you agree with me on staying up past your bedtime then? Good. You boys stole from me." Sam shook his head confusedly. "Yes, you did," John replied to the silent question. "Those candles didn't belong to you, now did they? And if the police had actually _investigated_, which they didn't, because they're lazy as hell, then _all our_ fingerprints would have ended up in the system. Wax makes great fingerprint collectors, Sammy," John added as an aside. "Do you think I need that in my line of work?"

By now, Sammy was looking completely miserable. He honestly hadn't thought about _any_ of those consequences. Dean sure was right – book smart wasn't street smart.

The young boy shook his head. "No sir, we didn't mean to make so much trouble. Honestly. And I'm really sorry."

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it today, kiddo. Revenge is never a good thing. The sooner you learn that, the better it's gonna be for your butt. Okay?"

Sam knew the finality in his dad's voice well and bit his lip as he nodded, dreading what would happen next. He allowed himself to be tugged from the chair and stood in front of his Dad expectantly.

"I honestly hope I only have to teach you this lesson once, Samuel. Is that understood?" John put both hands on the kid's shoulders and looked him in the eye hard. "Pants are coming down from the get-go, and you'd better behave yourself if you know what's good for you. I'll start off with my hand, but if you get too unruly, I have backup right here. You'll either get a few at the end – if you can be a good boy, or else…"

"I'll be good," Sammy whispered barely audibly as he clutched John's shirttails in his hand.

John turned the chair around easily with one hand, sat down and pulled the scrawny kid between his legs. Sammy's hands held on to his father's arms nervously as he popped the button on the kid's pants. They slid off easily and a few moments later John had a bare-bottomed boy laid out across his knees, small arms wrapped around his thigh and calf, hanging on as if for dear life.

"Do you know why you're getting this spanking, Samuel?" John asked and rubbed his hand across his son's rear end, to let him know what was coming.

"Yes, sir," a small voice replied." And I'm sorry."

"Let's make sure of that, shall we?" It wasn't really meant as a question and John slapped his open hand down with a loud slap. The kid gasped and sniffed, but otherwise stayed put. Sam wasn't always easy to read – sometimes his nerves got the better of him and he tried to squirm and struggle from the get-go, which was never easy for either of them. John soon learned he couldn't start too fast; apparently the kid's brain just couldn't deal with too much pain at once. He wasn't even deliberately trying to be bratty, so John had to take that into account, too.

John continued to spank slow and steady, allowing the pain in the kid's backside to build up gradually. Sammy kicked his legs a little, which was to be expected, but his arms remained wrapped tightly around John's leg. His pale white skin soon turned a soft shade of pink, but as it got deeper into the red the kid's body tensed and stiffened. Not just after each spank, but continuously.

John stopped for a moment and asked, "Sammy, why are you fighting me?"

"I'm not," came the whimpered answer from below the chair, but his body remained stiff as a board.

"Do you deserve a sound spanking for breaking all those rules, and scaring an old lady, and repeatedly lying to me?" John followed up his question with a hearty swat that finally opened the floodgates for good.

"Owww!" Sammy sobbed loudly, but he continued a moment later with a hasty, "Yes, sir. But I don't want that thing."

John huffed. "_That thing_ is a wooden spatula, and I told you you'd be feeling it if you didn't behave. And here we are."

"I'm trying to hold still!" Sammy sounded like he was about to panic. "Please, Dad… please don't."

John could feel Sam's face press against his leg. "Samuel, I've told you boys a thousand times – if you don't relax it's gonna bruise, and I'm not having any of that."

Sammy took a deep breath, relaxed, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

"Uh-huh, that's better," John said, but it wasn't. A few slaps later, Sam's legs were bare, pants having slipped down his frantically kicking legs. John shook his head and spanked on regardless, but soon the squirming and kicking really started to interfere with his aim. Usually now would be a pretty good time to wraps things up, but the boy's list of infractions was too long for that today.

John easily shifted the kid so he was only folded over one thigh and secured his legs with the other. He half expected the kid to kick more, or protest being pinned down, but to his surprise it actually seemed to help him calm down.

"Okay, kiddo – now for the hard part." John reached for the spatula and tapped the wood lightly against Sam's well-roasted butt. "You're getting ten. No more late night rituals and sneaking behind my back. Is that clear?" He waited until he heard his son whisper, "I'll be good," in the smallest of voices before he brought the spatula down three times on the lower part of each cheek, once on the top of each side and a two final swats right in the centre of his butt.

When that was done, he flipped the crying boy right side up and hugged him close to his chest. Once Sammy was all cried out, John pulled his pants back up, straightened his clothes, stood him in the corner and headed upstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

In a way, John was glad he'd taken Sam's advice and given both him and his oldest son some time to cool off. After all, storming into an argument like a raging bull never did nobody any good. John gave a snort as he saw the door to the boys' room was open. Must have been the fairies.

He knew Dean had probably heard him coming up the stairs, so he was most likely mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Sneaking up on Dean always spooked the kid, and the boy honestly didn't do his best thinking when he was in a panic.

John came to a halt just inside the doorway. The room wasn't very big, especially not after two beds, a dresser and a desk had been crammed inside. Looking around, it always surprised John to find how the boys' personalities translated into their behavior. Sammy's schoolwork was always in top condition, but the rest of his things lay helter-skelter everywhere; Dean was the complete opposite. His side of the room - which was closest to the door - was neat and tidy, leaving enough space for the kid to stand in the corner between the dresser and the wall.

John noted with approval that his boy had followed at least two of his orders today. Dean was standing in the corner in his shirt and skivvies. Not that it didn't still leave him with a pretty dismal overall score.

"Think you'll be able to keep a civilized tongue in your head long enough to have a conversation, boy?"

"Yes, sir," came the rather despondent reply.

"In that case, you can turn around." John folded his arms across his chest and waited for the kid to face him. "When exactly did it become acceptable for you to have temper tantrums and go around banging doors, hm, boy?" John stared down at Dean, his face set in a disapproving frown.

_Sonuvabitch!_ Dean thought in a flight of panic. What in the name of hell was he supposed to do now? Dad didn't look as pissed off as he'd been before, but there in his hand was the wretched wooden spatula, that had left a really mean sting in his butt, even over the pants. Dean really wished he hadn't kicked the door shut with his foot. At least not _that_ loud. His mouth felt dry and he licked his lips, a lump forming in his throat as he glanced up at John, green eyes large with worry.

"I asked you a question." John's growl was deep and predatory, like a wolf seconds before pouncing on his prey.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Dean said, wishing there was some way to talk himself out of this. "I shouldn't have done that." He really didn't want to screw the pooch any more than he already had. Right now he _really_ wished he could take everything back.

"You've been begging for some quality time across my knee, boy, and that's exactly what you're gonna get!"

Dean nodded he understood and remained quiet, waiting for John's next move.

"You ready to talk to me reasonably first?"

"Yes, sir." Dean didn't really believe that he and his dad would find mutual ground regarding "reason" on this particular matter, but what else was he gonna say? Nobody told John Winchester "no" to his face and lived to tell the tale with any dignity intact.

"Fortunately for you, your brother was a little better at reporting what happened, so I think I've got the basics covered. You know your brother – do you think there's any part that he might have missed?"

Hell yeah, Dean could think of something that Sammy might have missed, but it wasn't gonna save his butt, so why bother? He shook his head. "No, sir."

John gave Dean a much sharper version of the lecture he'd previously given Sammy that left the older boy blushing furiously, unable to do much more than nod. John talked about lying, sneaking, juvenile delinquency and about how he didn't need that kind of police attention. When he told the kid he'd been making fun of his line of work with his little "prank" he looked downright miserable and wouldn't even look up from the floor.

"C'mere." John reached out his hand and as Dean quickly stepped over, John placed his hand on the back of the kid's neck. "Sammy told me that you feel I've been unfair, and I'm sorry things between you and Mrs. D. escalated like this. Next time, you come and you talk to me about stuff like that, so you won't get in trouble for retaliating behind my back. Got it?"

Hot, angry tears had started to well up in his eyes and Dean felt mad at himself for not being able to control them, but knowing what lay in store for him and having had more than enough time to think about it was really gnawing at his nerves. He nodded and repeated, "Got it."

"C'mon, Deano, talk to me. I've never seen you so upset over anything, and I'd really like to understand what's going on up here." John lightly cuffed the back of the kid's head.

"Nothin', sir. Can we please get this over with?"

John ignored the request and pulled the kid closer. "You drag your brother out of the house in the middle of the night, leave a cut-up dead possum on someone's front porch in a ritualistic setting and all that because of – nothing? Come on, kiddo, you know I'm not gonna fall for that. I wanna hear the truth, and I wanna hear it now, are we clear?"

Dean looked anguished, but he still refused to talk.

"Dean," John said warningly, "This is very tedious for both of us. Either you yell at me, or you just clam up – we need to find another way for you to communicate with me, son, 'cause this ain't working. Are you _sure_ there is nothing you have to say for yourself in all this?"

It was as if a wall of stubborn silence was erected all around that kid and there was nothing John could think of that would get through to him. If Dean didn't want to talk, he simply didn't talk. There were no two ways about it.

John couldn't help but feel very disappointed at this. Why wouldn't that stubborn brat talk? He sighed. "Alright then, let's move this along. What happens when you disobey me?"

Dean's tongue darted out again, wetting his lips. "I get punished, sir."

"Uh-huh," John agreed. "And what kind of punishment do you think you deserve for your latest stunt?"

"You'll spank me, sir." Dean tried hard to keep his voice steady, but it wasn't something that was easy to admit and his voice hitched audibly. "And you'll make sure I'm _really_ sorry before you're done."

"Yeah, that sounds about right. And make no mistake, Dean – you deserve it, too! But it's not what I want to do at this moment. What I _want_ is for you to talk to me first. Let's get this sorted out before I give you the punishment you really deserve."

Dean remained stoic. John sighed in resignation. So he moved them both over to the other side of Dean's bed and sat down. "You asked for this, Dean. Bend over. You know the drill."

Dean had resolved to keep his thoughts to himself, as it just didn't seem to make much of a difference when he told his dad what he really thought, not if it was going to break any sort of Winchester commandment. But he was starting to doubt that resolve. For once _not_ opening his mouth was going to get his ass into as much trouble as he normally got for mouthing off. He just couldn't win.

So he prepared for the worst. Dean leant forward across John's lap, resting his hands on the covers. He waited for John to slide his skivvies down before wriggling into position. This bed had an iron frame, and Dean wrapped his fingers tightly around the rails for support.

He couldn't suppress a small shudder that went through his body at the thought of _anything_ connecting with his already sore butt and he tentatively peeked over his shoulder, dreading what he would see. His dad's hands hurt _a lot_ but that spatula hurt even more. What he saw was John examining his butt, which was pretty weird. For a second he thought about asking him to take a picture, as it would last longer, but he wisely kept his trap shut.

Once his Dad's large paw connected with his butt, Dean was glad he hadn't pushed the envelope. The warm-up didn't last nearly as long as Dean had dared to hope, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight in anticipation of what he hoped was the main event. He felt his Dad shift to the side and a moment later the flat surface of the wood lay cold against his hot cheek. Dean groaned.

"Are you ready to talk?" John tried.

Dean stayed silent as he laid his head against the bed to steady himself for more.  
John sighed again, the annoyance within him coming to a head. "You want a lecture, Dean? I can give you a lecture. And if you're wise, you won't make me talk to myself. Do you know how many times you have lied to me about this situation with Mrs. Donnelly, Dean?"

Dean swallowed. Continuing the silent treatment was only going to result in his death. "Yes, sir."

"Excuse me?" John said, not quite believing his ears. "Care to explain yourself, boy?"

"Too often, sir?"

John's eyes narrowed. "You're walking a tightrope here, buddy. I'm not in the mood for any more of your cheek. Is that understood?" The spatula twice connected sharply with the fleshy part of Dean's butt and the kid moaned.

"I'm sorry – but there's no right answer to that, sir," Dean cried miserably.

John stopped spanking for a moment. He knew this punishment was far from done, but maybe he didn't have to continue loosening Dean's tongue the hard way. He relaxed his grip on the spatula and ran his other hand soothingly up the kid's back and placed it on his shoulder. "Son, get up and look at me."

Dean hesitated, not quite sure if this was a trick or not. "I mean it, Dean," John assured him. He set aside the spatula and pulled up the boy's boxers, then gently pushed his legs to help him stand, holding on to one wrist just in case this tactic went sideways.

"My point is that I don't want you lying to me, Deano. It's not acceptable. I need to be able to trust you. And you are being disrespectful towards me by not telling me important things because you think you're grown-up enough to handle things on your own. But there's nothing grown-up about sneaking around behind my back in the dead of night. I'm tired of this behaviour, Dean. I am tired of your disrespect, and I'm tired of telling you to watch your mouth. I've given you fair warning, but you didn't listen, so clearly I need to find another way to get through to you. This has been a long time coming, and by the time I'm done with you, I think I won't have to remind you to watch your manners around me for quite some time."

John got it, he really did. Being a teenager sucked. Too many emotions, hormones running wild, wanting to please, needing to rebel - the kid was a mess. But that didn't mean he'd tolerate that kind of behavior in his own house. "OK, so let's finish this."

"Dad!"

"Don't 'Dad' me, Dean. This part didn't have to happen. This spanking is for the disrespect and attitude. Down." He tugged on Dean's wrist to move him back into position. He could see the unshed tears in Dean's eyes, but the boy had to learn there were consequences to all of his poor choices. Baring his ass once again, John adjusted Dean just right, allowing him more access to the kid's thighs. He thought he could hear a miserable whimper coming from his feet. Good, the more miserable the boy felt now, the longer he'd remember. Or so John hoped...

Dean felt incredibly helpless and miserable as John continued the punishment. He honestly felt like he didn't have any butt left back there and that John was now striking bone. Dayum, why did his ass have to be so scrawny? It wasn't like he didn't eat like a horse, but with Dad's strict workout regime... it wasn't nearly enough.

"Dad, please - I swear I've learned my lesson!"

"If you'd learned your lesson, you wouldn't be swearing, now would you?" John asked sardonically, not missing a beat.

Dean closed his eyes and tried really, really hard to stay across his Dad's knee although every fiber of his being was telling him to try to get away. Screw _with his dignity intact_ – Dean was pretty sure he'd lost that quite some yips and teary-eyed apologies ago. But none had helped him one single bit.

Dad was pissed and he brought the spatula down on Dean's sore butt over and over. Until now, Dean had always thought the hairbrush was the worst thing ever invented, but he realized now – face inches away from the floor, backside on fire, legs kicking in the air – that _damnit!_ all this time when Dean had thought his Dad was spanking him really hard with the brush he'd actually been _holding back_. But the spatula was lighter and had less of an impact, so to speak, so apparently John thought he had to compensate for that with force.

Dean really, really wished his Dad didn't work out so much. It took him a bit to realize the ordeal was finally over - for now - and that his Dad was tugging his clothes back into place. He had said "this spanking," which meant they weren't even done. This made the tears fall even faster.

John easily pulled Dean up and onto his lap. Now John's large bear-like arms felt good wrapped around him, hugging him close to his chest and letting him cry. Once Dean had calmed down enough, John went in for the kill, knowing he'd worn the kid down enough not to have any defense left. "So what did Mrs. D. say that got you so upset with her, hm?"

Dean looked up in surprise, the thought about what would happen next suddenly banished by John's parental clairvoyance. "How did you know?" Dean asked quietly, trying to suppress a hiccup.

"Because you're my boy," John whispered softly. "It's my job to know and I know you. So quit stalling and tell me."

Dean took a deep breath and leaned in to John's shoulder. There was no point in pretending like nothing had happened, but he didn't have to look him in the eye while he said it. He felt like enough of a baby as it was. "She said we wouldn't be so unruly if we had a mom," Dean mumbled into John's flannel shirt front.

John sighed heavily. "So that's what all this is about?" John hugged Dean closer to him. "It's a figure of speech, son. Believe me. There are plenty of families out there with two parents, a house, and a picket fence and their kids are still brats or the parents don't even care."

"She shouldn't have said that. She made it sound like Mom left because she didn't want to be with us." Dean sounded small and hurt.

John gently grabbed Dean's arms to hold him away now. He wanted to look into the boy's eyes. "No. She shouldn't have. But why didn't you tell me, Deano? I could have talked to Mrs. D. and sorted this thing out." Dean just shrugged his shoulders.

"That's not an answer, kiddo. So you didn't tell me because you wanted revenge, and as a result you and your brother are in an awful lot of trouble.

"So we're really not done?" Dean looked up pleadingly at John with his amazingly green eyes and John's resolve almost melted.

"Afraid not, kiddo. I told you. That spanking was for the disrespect and attitude. That didn't need to happen. You forced my hand there. The next one is for the unnecessary act of revenge, the lying, all of it, Dean. For now, I'm gonna put you back in the corner so you can have some time to cool down. Up you get. I'll let you put your jeans back on for now."

Slowly, like he was on his way to the gallows, Dean slid off his Dad's warm lap and headed towards the corner. John handed him his pants, which he carefully pulled on, grimacing as the dense material made contact with his sore thighs and tender butt. These jeans were well-worn. There would be little protection from whatever Dad planned next, but he would be grateful for any mercy Dad showed. After buttoning up, Dean leaned his forehead against the wall and put his hands behind his back.

"Stay put," John ordered sharply as he headed back downstairs

OoO oOo OoO oOo

John needed a caffeine fix, and he needed it now. He really wished this place came with a percolator, but he would have to make do with instant.

"Dad?" asked a small voice from the corner.

John automatically looked over to check on his youngest, but decided to put the kettle on the stove before answering. Once the gas ignited the flame, he walked over to the corner and stood behind his son.

"What's the rule about talking in the corner?" John tried not to growl, but he really needed a break from his kids.

"But, Da-ad," Sammy whined, "I _really_ need to pee."

"Turn around."

Sammy took a deep breath and turned to face his father. The look on John's face was so dark he almost wished he was back looking at the corner, but he didn't dare disobey. Now or ever again. He had to tilt his head all the way back in order to make eye contact.

"Have you thought about why you're here, son?" John cupped the kid's face in his hand and studied him closely. He wasn't exactly mad any more, but talking in the corner _was_ against the rules.

"Yes, Daddy. No more sneaking. Promise." Sammy looked up sincerely.

"Come right back when you're finished. I'm not done with you." Before he had time to blink twice, a small figure had dashed past him, head bent down, fresh tears glinting in his eyes. John sighed. This was a terribly long day.

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John had his coffee and managed to get some juice into a very fidgety Sammy before taking the kid by the hand and leading them both upstairs.

"Dean – front and center," John ordered as soon as all the Winchesters were in the boys' bedroom. John moved Sam to stand next to his brother and the younger kid instantly reached for his brother's hand.

"What you did was immature and _disgusting,_ by the way. I don't care if you had an axe to grind with that woman or not. I don't care if she got you into trouble when it wasn't your fault. _This_ \- leaving a dead possum outside her door, _lying_ to me..." John broke off to make his point clear before continuing, "_repeatedly_, after I gave you ample opportunities to come clean with me, sneaking outside after hours, _mocking my work..._

"Dad! I didn't mock you! I swear! Or at least I wasn't trying to! Honest!"

"Dean, enough. Meant it or not, this is all on you, _both_ of you. So there'll be consequences. Severe consequences."

Both boys looked contrite and dejected, but readily nodded their heads.

"Dean - for the next month, you have the same bedtime as Sammy. If you can't sleep, feel free to think about what got you sent to bed early in the first place. And - because you clearly don't take my work seriously, even if you think you do, no hunting for you for the next three months. No guns, no crossbow, no questions."

Now _that_ one really hit home. Sammy stared up at John with his large puppy eyes and Dean's shoulders slumped as he nervously started chewing on his lower lip.

"You boys know me well enough by now to know that I don't like to teach the same lesson twice, so I'm gonna make sure that it sticks the first time round. Dean – I told you you had more punishment coming and you've earned yourself a dose of my belt for this. I'll let you keep your jeans for now while we get warmed up, but then you lose them." John watched Dean's face closely. There was the briefest hint of worry that passed by as quick as it came, then it was as if a switch in the boy's head had been flicked and his expression became hard and impossible to read. Dean always tried to hide behind a tough façade when he found himself in trouble and clearly, he was doing that now.

"Samuel –" John grabbed the chair from under the desk and swung it around, placing it at the foot of his bed on the other side of the room. "-you've earned yourself a first-row seat to the show."

Dean hung his head even more now, the tough facade falling away at the realization of what was to come. He silently started to cry as all color seemed to drain from Sam's face. Dean _hated_, absolutely _hated_ being watched when he was being disciplined. Sammy figured it had something to do with his big-brother-protector image and it felt terrible knowing that he made Dean's punishment worse by just being there.

Sammy looked up at his brother first, squeezing his hand once more for reassurance, then slunk over to the chair and carefully lowered his weight onto the seat. It was as much a punishment for him to have to watch as it was for Dean to be watched. Their dad knew what he was doing.

John beckoned Dean closer, so they were both standing between the beds. In order to give Sam the best view, Dean would have to bend over that side of his bed. Dean glanced over his shoulder nervously and noted that his brother had full view of his butt in this position and he wondered if Dad sometimes sat up at night thinking of ways to make his life as miserable as possible. He felt John apply pressure to his shoulder until he sank to his knees beside the bed and slid his forearms onto the covers. He was at least glad his face was toward the door so at least Sammy wouldn't see his pained expressions.

"You stay put, you hear me?" John said in his no-nonsense tone. Both boys were frozen, listening for the tell-tale chink of the buckle being opened, and the swooshing sound John's belt made as it was pulled from its loops.

"Right, kiddo, you know how this works. Just be glad I let you keep your jeans for starters," John said once he'd doubled the belt over in his hand, securing the buckle end that bit into his palm.

Dean pushed his torso up from the bed, propped himself up on his elbows and turned his head to face his dad. He really didn't want any more, was sure he couldn't take anymore, even through denim, yet his dad was set on _giving_ him more, so what was a boy to do?

"So, Dean, tell me. How many do you think you deserve?" John said as he looked down at the anxious boy.

Dean hated this part. Hated it with a vengeance. At this point, John usually had a number set in his mind and if Dean's answer wasn't spot-on, or at least close, that would only piss him off. But Dean wasn't dumb enough to set the bar too high, either. That damned belt hurt like a bitch! He'd never gotten the belt _plus_ anything before and he honestly thought Dad had driven his point home pretty well with his hand and the double-dose of the hard wooden spatula already.

Dean rubbed at his tears with the back of his hand and tried to get his breathing under control. Man, today sucked!

He tried to think. So, maybe two for the possum, one for telling lies, and one for dragging Sammy into the mess. After all, he had already been soundly spanked for each of those offenses, and he'd never gotten more than three. Since John was behind him, he didn't have the usual advantage of gauging his answer by John's reactions. So he took a deep breath and hoped for the best. "Four, sir," he said, then held his breath as he prayed John would agree.

John took a moment to think about his son's choice and scratched at his scruff. "I was thinking more along the lines of eight."

Well, fuck a duck.

Dean's head fell into his hands. To be honest, that answer came like a blow to the gut. He had expected his dad so say, "Four," because usually he was quite good at judging how mad John was and what punishment to expect for what crime. Sure, John usually aimed _a little_ higher just to, you know, play the dad-card. But eight? That was just plain mean. Dean nodded curtly and swallowed. Then he tucked his hands under his chest and waited.

John frowned. This was unusual. Normally the boys were hell-bent on trying to persuade him to lessen the punishment – it didn't always work, but sometimes they managed to "trade" some other form of punishment for a reduced amount of licks. Or they tried to come up with the best argument as to why they'd learned their lesson, so there really was no reason to enforce it. If the apology was heartfelt enough, that usually sufficed for John. Winchesters were feisty by nature. They didn't just cave in like that.

"Dean, look at me." He'd been willing to hear Dean out, make sure he'd learned his lesson, and he really wasn't expecting this.

Dean turned his head again but otherwise stayed put. His mouth had already gotten him into enough trouble for one day and he just wasn't prepared to cause himself anymore. If Dad wanted to continue yapping, fine, but the conversation would be pretty one-sided from now on. Dean was tired and sore and just wanted it all to be over.

John stepped to the bed and placed a hand on his son's back. The kid unconsciously flinched.

Dean couldn't help it. His body tensed up. He didn't think he'd ever be able to sit again and he wished there was a way he could ask his dad to please, please, please _not_ hit the back of his legs, but with a total of eight licks coming he _knew_ Dad would spread them out evenly, making sure they overlapped and that Dean wouldn't be sitting easily any time soon.

"Just do it. Please," Dean said between clenched teeth, not wanting his Dad to think he was being willfully disrespectful yet again.

The belt first slapped lightly against Dean's scorched behind. He clenched his hands into fists and pressed his forehead against the mattress. Damn! Dad had only been taking aim and that first light tap had almost been enough to make him whimper. The leather connected with the seat of his pants and Dean could hear a loud SNAP, followed by a high-pitched yell. It took him a moment to realize that he _knew_ that voice, and another second before his brain registered it as his own. Both his hands had shot out from under him and he was cupping them protectively over his sit-spots.

"Dean," John said the one syllable warningly.

Dean pressed his hands against his sore butt a few seconds longer trying in vain to keep the pain from emanating off his thoroughly punished butt in hot, angry waves. He slid his hands back under his body and choked out a miserable, "One, sir."

"Keep your hands to yourself or the next one doesn't count."

Dean tried to be good, he really, really did, but when the belt licked across his flaming behind for a second time, even through his clothing, he squealed in dismay and instinctively tried to roll away from the pain. Neither of the Winchesters was too happy about that reaction.

It took John all of two seconds to haul the boy back into position. Dean's right arm, always the more independent limb, shot back and tried to ward off any more attacks. John knew the kid was in pain, but they'd started this and they would have to see it to the end. "Dean. You're thirteen. That means you're old enough to accept your punishment."

John shot a warning look across the room to see what his other little miscreant was up to. "Eyes up front, Samuel," he barked, as he caught the kid trying to hide behind his hands. Sammy took his hands down and wrapped them protectively around himself, tears streaming down his face.

John flipped his wrist so the belt was behind his fist and raised his hand up to his shoulder, bringing the belt down with a loud "swoosh." Dean's reaction was instant - he yelled in pain, and he rolled his hips to try and get away, or at least give his poor butt the chance to recover a little before the next punishing blow hit.

Dean's throat felt as dry as parchment and he was starting to sweat. This whole ordeal really wasn't going well for him _at all_ and he felt sore and helpless and just wanted to crawl away. He didn't think that would sit well with his Dad either, though. His poor butt was on FIRE and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so sore. Dad's strong hands grabbed him and pulled him back in position.

"One more stunt like that, Dean, and we're starting over, is that clear?"

Dean dug his forehead into the mattress, his heart pounding. His butt - especially the right side - hurt worse than he could remember and each time his Dad seemed to hit the exact same spot - how the hell was he supposed to withstand _that_?

Way before Dean was ready, the belt whistled through the air again, and his right hand involuntarily shot back to try and rub the sting away that instantly pulsed across his backside. Now he almost wished the licks were coming on the bare as it would probably make it easier to nurse the raw skin. The jeans just made it harder and more frustrating to reach the aching places.

"Damnit, Dean - that's _it_!" John barked. He _hated_ doing this - hated having to be the bad guy and causing his kids pain, but a lesson needed to be taught here. Dean got his wish. "Lose 'em," John demanded. "Both of 'em," he added.

Dean breathed out a hesitant breath as he shakily rose up to lower his jeans and boxers. John couldn't see his face, but he was pretty certain the tears were making it hard for Dean to see and contributing to him moving slowly now.

Finally the boy lowered his pants and boxers and repositioned himself on the bed. This time, John pinned Dean's right hand down behind his back to keep him in place.

"Eyes on the prize, Samuel," John reprimanded as he saw that Sammy was, once again, not doing as he was told. The kid's shaggy head shot up, and he wiped at his tears with his sleeve.

"I don't recall hearing you count more than one, Dean, plus you've been squirming like an eel today. But you will behave yourself from now on, are we clear? I take it you don't want a repeat come bedtime, so you'd better straighten up."

There was no way Dean was going to survive this if he kept going at this rate. He _should_ have been at four by now and that was where Dean had originally hoped to stop, but even at four he would have been right here, struggling to get past one, having wasted three strikes because he couldn't stand the pain any more. No matter what, he was destined to get more and he was going to get these next seven on bare skin. He was going to have to dig deep if he wanted to make it through this - for his and Sammy's sake, who was having as much trouble containing his sniffles as Dean was his squirming.

"Are you ready, Dean?" John asked. He didn't have to grant that moment of mercy, but he knew this would be tough. He needed Dean to learn this lesson for good.

Dean nodded. He could do this. He only needed to concentrate on something other than himself, his arm pinned behind his back, and the pain of the thick leather. He fully turned his ear to Sammy now and willed his brother to calm down. It was going to be alright. As he silently tried to assure his brother, the belt struck again. This time he forced his weight into the bed so he wouldn't move from position. Also, it was a lot harder to move his hips, now that Dad was holding his arm in place, so he was a little grateful he wouldn't get into more trouble for moving. "Two," he whimpered, sniffling a new breath in to prepare for the third. _It's ok, Sammy. Don't cry. It's ok, Dean. You can do this._

Three struck with as much force as ever and Dean couldn't help but cry out, but he once again pushed his weight into the bed in an effort to stay still.

"Dean?"

"Three," he said, a hitch in his voice making it hard to speak.

John wanted to be done for all their sakes now. He moved fast to lay down numbers four and five, watching as Dean's shoulders jerked at both, his cries getting louder with each lash. "Four. Five." Dean's voice got smaller as he pressed his head into his one free hand in a rare prayer to he-didn't-know-who for extra strength. His tears had made his hand slippery and he felt like a mess as his cheek rubbed the wet skin.

"Almost done, boy."

John thought it best to rip the Band-aid and quickly laid down the last three strikes as Dean's head rose from the bed, crying out in pain but counting out as he knew he had to. When he reached eight, he dropped his head to his hand again and released the flood of tears that had broken through. John let go of his other hand.

Dean couldn't bear to look at Sam or Dad right now, so he used one hand to pull his pants back up, not bothering to fasten them, climbed up onto his bed, and drew his knees up to his chest as he curled himself into the smallest ball he could facing the wall, turning his back on his Dad, and hopefully away from Sammy's sympathetic eyes.

It wasn't worth it. He and Sammy had paid a dear price for revenge, greater than even he had anticipated and he took no comfort in that now as he flashed back to all the pain his Dad had delivered in that one day alone, at least part of it because of his own stubbornness. It felt like this pain was never going to end and revenge really just wasn't worth it.

"Not feeling like such a tough guy now, eh, Dean?" John sat down on the kid's bed and rubbed a soothing hand along his back. Dean deliberately turned even closer to the wall, clearly communicating that John could get lost with his sympathy.

"You're being a brat, Dean. But you're _my_ brat, so I still love you." With that, John planted a kiss onto the back of his son's head and decided to let him lick his wounds on his own, if that was what he preferred, but he would have really liked to hold his boy in his arms.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Alright, Samuel, stand up."

Sammy scampered off the chair and looked up at his Dad looming over him.

"How many times did I have to remind you to do as you're told during Dean's punishment?"

Sam cast his eyes to the floor and he thought his heart was gonna stop when he saw the object dangling from his Dad's right hand. Unable to form a coherent thought he just stared up at John wide-eyed.

"The answer is twice, Samuel, so that means you're getting two with the belt."

"No! I'm sorry, Daddy! I'm sorry! Please don't," Sam cried. The tears were fat and falling freely from his cheeks. He couldn't have imagined Dean's fate would be his as well.

John placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and said, "Big boy crimes call for big boy punishments. Now bend over and hold on tight to the seat of the chair. You already know what happens if you move."

Sam licked his lips, tasting the salt of his tears as he looked over at his cowed brother, still huddled on the bed. Dean hadn't reacted. Sam knew he was too deep in his own pain to even fully realize what was about to happen now to his little brother. He might have offered to take the licks for Sammy if he had noticed, but Sam wouldn't have let him anyway. That thought alone gave him the strength to do what Dean would have done for him.

John placed one of his legs between Sam's and tucked him close with his left hand. Sammy wasn't close to big enough to lean over the back of the chair, but this position would do fine. Sam didn't notice, but John was now holding the belt a lot closer to the middle, so he had less leather to work with but a better aim. That way he could be sure exactly where the belt landed, plus it would of course pack a lot less force, which was appropriate for Sammy's young age. "It's your choice, kiddo - either you take two without kicking up a fuss, or as many as it takes until you've learned your lesson. We clear?"

"Yessir," Sammy whispered, unable to see clearly through the veil of tears. He gripped the edge of the seat tightly and squeezed his eyes shut.

The first lick had him up on the tips of his toes as the sting blossomed to its full burn. He squealed with pain although he knew it hadn't sounded nearly as loud as it had for Dean. Not that that offered much consolation now.

"Uh-huh," John said approvingly as the kid's hands stayed in place. "One more, and we're done. Hold tight." With that, he brought the belt down a second time, right across the center of Sam's slim butt, hoping it would be the last. A split second later he felt pretty much _all_ of Sammy wrap around his leg and thigh.

"No more, Daddy, no more, no more," Sammy begged, trying to get as close to John as he could. John shook his head as he looked down at the kid's antics. Those two swats with the belt couldn't have hurt more than a swat from John's hands - the implement had been used more psychologically than technically.

"No breaking position, Samuel," John spoke softly. "Hands back on the chair, and stop being naughty." Sammy wailed and cried some more. When he realized that he wouldn't get his way, he slowly transferred one hand after the other from John's leg over to the seat of the chair.

"That's better," John was quick to praise. "Now, are you going to be a good boy?"

"Yes, Daddy. But please…" Sammy broke off and pressed his face into John's pants.

"Well, if you're done being naughty, I'm done with the belt. Okay, son?" With that he picked up his baby, sat him on his lap and hugged him until he was all cried out.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

Come dinner time, there was an unnatural occurrence in the Winchester household. John called the boys down, but only Sammy found his way into the kitchen. John gave Sam an expectant look, but Sammy only shrugged his shoulders and looked at Dean's empty spot. John figured one missed meal wouldn't kill the boy, at least not literally, and if he was too stubborn to come down he would just have to go to bed hungry and decide if it was worth it later. The father really wasn't looking forward to sulky teenage years.

At 6:45 PM, John heard a noise from upstairs. Apparently, the beast had awoken. He stood up from the kitchen table, where he had been studying some old books he'd found in the library and went to check on his youngest. Sammy was lying face down on the sofa, his book clearly discarded for now, gaze resting on the black screen of the TV.

"Book no good, champ?" John asked as he sat down and rubbed his hand along the kid's back.

"I don't know," Sammy muttered, rolling half on his side and curling around John. "Guess I just wasn't able to concentrate properly."

"I see," John said as he continued to caress his baby's back. His small body felt warm wrapped around him; little tyke had always been big into hugs. "You worried about your brother?"

Sammy nodded and looked up at him with big, sad eyes. John sighed, "It'll be a new day tomorrow. For now, just try to get some rest, okay? You're brother's upstairs getting ready for bed, so I want you to head up and brush your teeth as soon as he's done, okay?"

"Is it that late already?" Sammy asked, looking puzzled.

"Mhm," John said, patting his head. "It's been a long day for all of us, so how about you don't give me any hassle about bedtime tonight, eh tiger?"

"Uh-huh," Sammy nodded readily. As if he was going to make a fuss today. "Can I have a hug until Dean's done?"

"Sure," John said with a smile as he scooped Sammy up in his arms and hugged him tight. After a couple of minutes, they heard the bathroom door upstairs re-open and John set his baby back on the floor. "Off you go now," he said as he watched Sammy pick up his book and obediently trot upstairs. With a sigh, he rose to get back to his research.

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A few minutes later, John heard Dean clear his throat and he looked up from his book. Kid moved like a ninja – he hadn't even heard him come down.

"You all set for bed, kiddo?" John asked as he put his book down.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied quietly, edging a little closer. The kid didn't look too good. John sighed. "So what can I do for you?"

"Um," Dean said, uncertainly. He cleared his throat and started over. "I'm not sure… if you said I should report back to you before bedtime, or not…"

John stared at him hard. "You mean you _still_ weren't paying attention?"

Dean blushed and ran his hand through his short hair. "No, it's not that, it's just…" he broke off unhappily. "It's not like I didn't _want_ to pay attention," he nervously licked his lips, "but I guess it all just got a bit intense, you know and… I'm sorry, sir."

_Well, fuck!_ Dean thought miserably. _Way to impress Dad when you're already up to your ears in trouble, genius!_

John stood up and leaned against the kitchen counter and studied his son closely. "I said we'd be having another conversation if you didn't behave. But luckily, you did. So that part's dealt with, okay?"

Dean bit his bottom lip and nodded, clearly relieved that his butt was finally getting a break. "Yes, sir."

"This little feud that you've got going with Mrs Donnelly – it stops right here, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"And we're going to make that right too, son."

Dean blinked, not knowing what that could possibly mean. But he would have to be in the dark this time. He just couldn't risk any more trouble tonight. "Um, yes, sir. I understand."

"Good. You need to get some rest. So do I."

Dean nodded his "yes, sir," looking as awkward as he felt. "Um, Dad?"

"What is it, Dean?"

"I..I'm really sorry I, um, made you so mad. I swear I didn't mean for it to go this way."

John scoffed. "Of course you didn't, Dean. You wouldn't intend to get in the amount of trouble you did."

"Well, um, no, sir," Dean tried again, trying to get his dad to understand. "I knew I would get in trouble if I got caught…"

"You mean if you both got caught? You and Sammy?"

"Um, yes, him too. I just..didn't mean…"

"I'm sure you didn't, Dean." John sighed, looking down at his book. "Why don't we both just take a minute, huh? You get on up to bed now, ok?" John gave his son a small smile, trying to reassure him that all was not lost.

Without even thinking about it, John held out his arm to offer Dean a hug. In a flash, the teen was at his side, face pressed against his shoulder, soaking up his Dad's scent and physical presence.

The sadness in Dean's eyes touched John more than he'd let his son see right then. It was just going to take some time to set things right again. That was all there was to it. But Dean realized this too as he pulled back, and turned to go upstairs. He was going to have to earn his Dad's trust back and he was going to do whatever it took to make that happen.

**NOTE: When we got to the end of this story, we realized we weren't quite where we wanted to be. So stay tuned for the epilogue!**


	8. Chapter 8

**NOTE: So after all was said and done, clearly not all was said and done. So now you have this epilogue to hopefully make you feel complete. I give 99% of the credit to my LJ writing partner wise_old_crone for this one. There are bits of me here, sure, and a bit of a third accessory to the crime, another LJ friend, remisfriend26 who has a wicked way with a needle and thread. But mostly it's WOC this time. I'm only posting because she doesn't have an account here and how do I not include the epilogue? We even have a little visual aid to award you for your valiant reading efforts.**

"Dean!" The sleeping boy heard the urgency behind the voice whispering his name close to his ear and he immediately jerked awake. There was a light on in the hallway, but the door to his room was almost fully closed, leaving only a sliver to shine into the room.

Dean looked up and saw his Dad leaning over his bed. The right half of his head was covered in blood, and his skin was white and pale. "Put on some clothes and meet me in the kitchen," John directed quietly. Dean's eyes widened as he took everything in, but he nodded obediently, tossed away his covers, and reached for yesterday's clothes discarded in a pile next to his bed. He dressed quickly in the dark, closed the door as quietly as possible, as he didn't want to wake Sammy, and headed downstairs with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

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Dean instinctively froze as his first foot landed on the cold kitchen floor - something in the room was off. And it wasn't just his banged-up father, who sat slouched at the kitchen table, one side of his head caked with dry blood, either.

The teen quickly scanned the room and realized that John had drawn the curtains. Clearly, he didn't want a certain neighbor to see what was going on. Dean almost made a casual remark about that, but quickly bit his tongue. During the last two days, the atmosphere in the Winchester household had been strained, to say the least. With hunting a strictly off-limits topic for Dean, there had been mostly awkward silence in the kitchen as John prepared for a hunt that had - quite obviously - gone rather wrong.

"Pour me a drink, would ya, kiddo?" John asked gruffly. He couldn't help being in a foul mood - it was in the middle of the damned night, his body hurt like it had just gone through the wringer, the fugly had clearly won this round, and his teenage son now had the unfortunate job of putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.

A pair of large green eyes studied him attentively. "You sure that's a good idea, sir?" Dean's question sounded tentative, but his movements were sure as he gently tilted John's head so he could see the damage that had been done to the side of his head in better light. The first-aid kit, towels, a wash cloth, and a bowl of hot water were already on the table.

Dean's pink tongue darted across his lower lip as he carefully dabbed at the wound with the wet cloth. "It's just that Uncle Bobby said that you shouldn't mix alcohol with head injuries because it works as a blood thinner and it's a bit hard to put a tourniquet around your brain." Dean thought a second before he added, "Sir."

"Sonofabitch!" The curse was out of John's mouth before he really had time to think. He involuntarily jerked his head away and grabbed hold of Dean with his left hand.

For a terrible moment, Dean thought he'd _really_ gotten himself into trouble now. His mind flashed back to when John's belt connected with his still very tender butt and the kid froze up. He _really_ didn't want another lickin'. However, it soon dawned on him that his father was merely reacting to the pain.

"Dad… are you alright?" It almost broke John's heart hearing the worry in his kid's voice and he really wanted to tell him that he was good, that everything would turn out okay, but today he just couldn't fake it.

"I… just need a minute." John tried to shake off the pain. "C'mere." He pulled his kid closer and rested his weary head against him. Feeling rather puzzled, Dean tentatively returned John's hug with one arm as his father rested his forehead against his chest. Dean felt perplexed, but he soon recovered. It didn't happen often, but there _were_ times when John came home from a hunt and just needed comfort. It was rare, but sometimes even Dads got scared.

"Do you also remember how to treat claw marks?" John asked almost casually, as he leaned back in his chair and looked up at his kid.

"Um, uh-huh," Dean nodded, not quite sure where this conversation was going. He was really burning to ask his Dad about a bazillion questions right now, but he knew that his ego would not recover before his high school graduation if John tore into him right now for not following orders. Again.

"Then help me get this off." John rolled his shoulders and Dean could see by the pained look on his face that his worst injury was probably still hidden. John grunted and cussed, but eventually the dark jacket came off, revealing a blue-and-white plaid shirt with a huge chunk missing in the shoulder area where John's skin was sticking through. Most of the right sleeve was either gone or drenched with blood.

"That's not gonna come out in the wash," John commented dryly, looking at the remains of his shirt. For a moment, their eyes met and Dean blushed, both men instantly thinking of a certain shirt covered in possum blood.

Dean purposefully cleared his throat and began unbuttoning the flannel shirt, only now noticing that John had been keeping his right arm close to his chest the entire time he'd been home. John shrugged his healthy arm free first and then said, "Okay, kiddo - here's what's gonna happen. This is gonna hurt like a bitch, and there's no two ways about it. So, I need _you_ to do exactly as I tell you, okay? Think of all this," - he pointed at the bloody mess of clothing, blood, and tissue - "as a kind of band-aid. Don't take too long getting it off, but try not to rip any chunks out either, if you can help it. Got it?"

Dean turned rather pale after hearing those words, and his freckles stood out clearly, making him look even younger than he was. For a moment John was worried that the kid was going to hurl, but he really had to give the boy credit for keeping his head. Dean just nodded and did exactly as he'd been told.

"OK, I'll sit still. You pull it off." John grabbed Dean's hand once more for emphasis. "Carefully, OK, son?"

"Of course, Dad. I can do it." Dean didn't recognize it in himself, but he needed to feel useful and when his Dad had no choice but to give Dean the reigns, that was when Dean felt most comfortable. No matter how banged up John was, he always made it home, and both Winchesters seemed equally relieved by that fact. It didn't even matter if Dean knew about the hunt or not. Hell, right now he didn't even _care_ about earning back his Dad's trust. All that mattered was that John was okay, and right now, he honestly wasn't looking too good. Dean had never seen him in this sort of state and he just hoped he could pull this off without making things worse - literally.

Dean grabbed as much of the cloth as he could before he had to actually make a move. Then he took a deep breath, and began to carefully but steadily remove the ripped material. One hand did the peeling while the other held his dad's skin in place as Dean tried to search through the blood for the truly damaged areas.

John hissed as the shirt came away from his sore flesh. Dean looked up at his face periodically, waiting for a sign he was going too far or too fast. But he didn't want to stop until he was done and he didn't want John to have to tell him to take it easy.

There were scissors in the first aid kit and now would be a good time to make use of them. "I think it would be easier to cut you out than pull you out, Dad."

John nodded. "That's ok. Just do it." John's head was pounding like a sinner against the gates of heaven, and he really wanted a double shot of Jack to dull his senses. But how could he, with his kid already sick with worry?

Dean didn't hesitate to comply. He turned to the table, opened the first aid kit, and started arranging the items on the table during his search for the scissors. This situation really called for a bolder approach and he busied himself cutting away the rest of the outer shirt and tossing it to the floor.

"Good job, son," John praised as he carefully pushed up the rest of the bloodied sleeve of the shirt he was wearing underneath it. "Ok," John breathed, examining the wound while Dean tried to clean in places that were clearly unharmed skin. "We've gotta clean this before we can really see the full damage."

"Yeah, I know, Dad. But that's gonna sting like a…" Dean curtailed his sentence. _Language, Dean,_ he reprimanded himself. "That's gonna sting really bad."

"Oh, to hell with this," John cussed and just ripped at the fabric. The pain flashed through his body and for a moment his world turned black.

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"What the HELL were you thinking?"

John blinked his eyes open, feeling disoriented and confused. He sheepishly looked up at Dean, who was using all of his body to keep his much larger father propped up in his seat. The older man cleared his throat and shifted his weight back onto the chair and off his son.

"I was going to do it, it would only have taken a _minute_!" John knew the anger in Dean's voice was really just masking his fear and he _did_ feel badly.

"Sorry." He made a face and looked down at the towel Dean held pressed against his left arm. "How's it look?"

"Gushing fresh blood all over the place, that's how it looks," Dean spat, still applying pressure to the wound. The duo waited in silence for a while until most of the bleeding had subsided.

_If either Sammy or I had done something that daft we'd get a good smack to help us think!_ The words almost begged to leave Dean's mouth, but instead of venting he just purposely ignored John as he continued to work. He picked up the remains of the shirt and held it under John's arm as he carefully doused the injured area with saline solution to sterilize it.

John inhaled sharply. "Shit! That really went deep. Feels like you're pouring straight onto the bone."

"Eww." Dean looked disgusted and sympathetic in equal terms. "That's gonna take a lot of stitches. You sure I shouldn't just take you to a hospital? You could get your head checked out, too?"

"Nah, I don't need the hassle. Just pour me a Scotch and I'll be alright."

His son said nothing but just looked at him with his scolding eyes.

John sighed. "You really not gonna give me a drink?"

Dean shook his head. "No, sir."

"Alright then." John moved his chair closer to the table and rested his elbow on the surface. Holding still would be a tough one.

Dean went to the sink and washed his hands before pushing the chairs together as close as they would go and sitting down next to John.

The wound on John's arm was still bleeding, but it was a lot slower now, basically just a trickle, so Dean decided to take a closer look. It really was nasty. He bit his lip, unsure whether to talk as he got ready to clean it out and stitch his father up. Dad had told him hunts were off limits though, and he didn't want to antagonize him when he was clearly in a lot of pain. But the wound really _was_ weird… John had mentioned claw-marks, and Dean was eager to find out what kind of thing had claws that deep… they reminded him of a tiger he'd seen in a zoo. Zombie-tiger, perhaps?

After a quick look at his father's head, which had miraculously stopped bleeding of it's own accord, Dean decided the shoulder wound was his top priority. He made a mental note to check for a concussion once he'd sewed his Dad back together, then started down his mental list of the necessary steps when closing up a wound.

The teen hunted around for the scissors for a moment, then turned back to his father, frowning in concentration as his Dad tried to follow some breathing exercises beside him. "Heads up," Dean didn't know what else to say. In a normal conversation he would have said something like, 'I'd like to see the other guy,' or a similar line like that, but he lost heart at the last moment.

Remembering all John had taught him, he carefully started to cut away the ragged flesh around the wound. He could clearly remember John's voice as he talked him through the process, _"Never stitch a ragged wound, Deano. That's when they get infected. You gotta cut away the worst bits, so you can try to avoid that. Got it?" _Dean's stomach churned at the mere mention of cutting a live person's flesh, ragged or otherwise, but John didn't tolerate squeamish, so he would just have to soldier through.

Well, Dean would prove to his Dad he could do it. All of it. John tensed beside him as Dean cleaned out a particularly sore looking scratch, but otherwise stayed as immobile as a statue. After what felt like an eternity, Dean put down the scissors, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His Dad gave him a small smile, but given how much pain he was in, it was more of a grimace.

Dean didn't let it distract him. "I'm gonna stitch it now, sir." John nodded in stoic silence. He _knew_ he should talk to Dean, if only to distract himself, but his pride wouldn't let him. He'd be damned if he'd go back on his word just to bring himself some relief. Served him right anyway, he supposed; banning Dean from anything involving hunting was effective because the kid hated being excluded, but occasionally it backfired just like it had tonight. They both knew that, but neither of them would break the tense silence first. John knew that well enough, and so did Dean. Instead, John had to clench his good fist and grit his teeth in wary anticipation of what was coming next.

Dean was scrutinizing the wound, trying to decide how best to go about closing it up. He didn't _think_ it had nicked anything serious, and the bleeding _had_ nearly stopped now, only oozing occasionally, but Dean wasn't sure if he should use an absorbent suture or not. He didn't want to tell his Dad that, but he also wanted to take away the pain as quickly as he could. An idea struck him then and he could have kicked himself.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Mm?"

Dean winced. If his dad was barely managing to put together coherent sentences, then it _must_ sting like a sonovabitch. "Um… I was just thinking, do we not have some of that Lidocaine left? Y'know, from last time you got hurt?"

Dean was careful not to mention any details in front of John. After all, he wasn't stupid enough to break the rules so soon after their major smack-down earlier in the week. It was just so hard though, Dean really _really_ wanted to discuss this latest hunt in comparison to the last one that had seen his Dad limping in late at night. The only difference was that Uncle Bobby had been there to take care of John. Not 13-year-old Dean who could barely stop his freaking hand from shaking…

John was silent for a moment. Damn, the kid was good. And he was right. They had both a bottle of the stuff and a tube of Lidocaine gel in the medical cabinet in the kitchen, out of the boys' reach. John nodded. "You're right, buddy. Can you manage to get it down? I could really do with _something_ and it would be the next best option as you're not letting me have a drink…"

Dean ignored his blatant attempt to wangle a finger of scotch out of him, trying not to get annoyed. John saw the incredulous anger simmering in Dean's eyes and sighed. "Sorry, Dean. It just hurts like a bitch…" He admitted quietly, forgoing his usual attempts not to cuss in front of his boys.

"I know, sir. It looks bad… I'll get the Lidocaine, that should help a bit."

John nodded, forcing himself to sit still while Dean pottered around the kitchen quietly. He didn't notice the teen quietly pad back across the room in his stockinged feet, and flinched when he felt something brush against his arm. "Sorry, sir. I thought the spray might be better, at least 'til your arm numbs a bit… The gel would sting something awful just now..."

John could hear the underlying worry and uncertainty in his son's voice and hid his own concern behind a chuckle. "I'll be alright, boy. Just try and be quick, alright?"

Dean bit his lip but nodded. "Sure thing, sir. Here goes nothing…"

John snorted like an injured warhorse as the spray tickled his skin in a fiery mist. Dean could see the moment the anesthetic started to take effect a few moments later, because his Dad relaxed a little and offered him a more genuine smile than he'd seen all night. When he received a small nod, Dean held up the sterilized suture needle he'd need. He'd already threaded it correctly, so he was good to go whenever Dad gave the green light.

He edged closer to John and gently pinched the flesh at the bottom of the wound together, then started stitching in neat, precise lines. Dean liked to think he was quite a tidy person, and he _knew_ his dad would examine his handy work later on, so he didn't want to make a mess of things. John snuck a couple of glances at his son, noting that Dean's technique was nearly as good as his own, and the kid had a helluva lot less experience doing stuff like this. Then again, they _did_ teach needlework and stuff at school these days - even to boys, and after Dean had seen Pastor Jim sew on a button in less than two minutes he'd decided that it was a useful skill after all and had practiced harder.

They sat in silence while he worked, the only sound in the dimly lit kitchen that of their breathing and the clock ticking merrily on the wall. To Dean, it felt like time had stopped as he focused on each individual stitch, but eventually he was done. He tied the suture so it wouldn't come loose, cut the thread and placed the needle down to be cleaned and sterilized. He shrugged his tense shoulders and relaxed. "Done."

John glanced down at his arm, nodding in approval as he started to stand. "Those are good, clean stitches, Dean. Well done." Dean blushed at the quiet praise, looking pleased with himself. He soon got it under control, though, and looked up at John seriously.

"I need to dress it. Then we can get a sling on it." The teen announced, beckoning his patient to sit back down. He looked at his father in disbelief when John didn't budge and instead vetoed his suggestion.

"No. No sling. I'll be fine, son. Just put a dressing on it, hmm?"

"But dad… The other hunters all say…"

"The other hunters aren't here just now, Dean. That's why I need my arm, kiddo."

John could have sworn he saw an all too familiar stubborn look come into Dean's eyes. He really didn't have the energy for a fight tonight. His shoulder hurt despite of the Lidocaine, and his head felt like it had been thrown into a wall before having a conversation with a sledgehammer.

"But… No! Dad, you _can't_! You'll just hurt yourself worse." Dean recognized the small warning glint creeping into John's eyes and paused to calm himself down before saying anything else. The last thing he wanted was to fight with his father after patching him up. "Please, sir?"

And that quiet confession broke John's resolve. He couldn't stand the way Dean was looking at him like a lost puppy, worried he'd drop dead at any moment. John sighed, rubbed a hand across his stubbled cheek, and sat back down wearily. "Alright, son. Dress it up. We'll see about a sling later, but I can't use one when I'm sleeping tonight anyway. One job at a time. Alright?"

Dean sighed but nodded. "Yes sir." Dean quietly got out dressings and bandages and got to work finishing attending to the oldest Winchester's injuries. John wished he could break the silence somehow but he couldn't think of anything to say and he was so damn tired that he wasn't sure he could muster up the energy to make conversation anyway.

He'd almost dozed off when he realized Dean was done and looked up to see his son dropping surplus supplies onto the table, alongside those needing to be discarded later. John sat up straighter, moved his arm a little to see how stiff it felt, then smiled at his son wearily.

"Any other advice for the patient? Or can I go lie down now?" John felt dog-tired, but there was a bit of a twinkle in his eyes as he looked at his son, who had just patched him up like a veteran army medic. Dean had remembered everything his father had taught him; from closing his wounds and checking the mobility of his injured arm, to running through the quick tests appropriate for a concussion. John was impressed by his son's approach and calm head, but now he _really_ wanted to rest.

Dean's head shot up. "You're thinking of going to bed?"

John huffed. "Well, it _is_ in the middle of the night."

"Yes, but-" Dean suddenly broke off mid-sentence. He knew he _shouldn't_ answer back, but he was really worried. _Oh, fuck it!_ Dean cussed inwardly, knowing that he just _had_ to speak his mind. "Uncle Bobby says you're not supposed to sleep for at least four hours with a head injury like that." He cocked his head to the side and looked at John. "That's why he stayed up with you last time, right?"

John looked at Dean, for a moment completely lost for words. "That happened almost two years ago, Dean." He rubbed a hand across his stubble. "I thought you were asleep at the time."

"I was." Dean didn't quite know what to do with himself now. "But I got up early and saw you sleeping on the couch. Uncle Bobby was awake and, um…"

"You decided to play 20 questions," John finished his sentence.

"I wanted to know how to take care of you if you ever got hurt and Uncle Bobby wasn't around."

"And you did good, son." With that John patted him on the back, rose abruptly, and made his way to the door. He didn't only feel physically drained, but emotionally, too. If he had to spend one second longer with his kid he was afraid he was going to start bawling. "I'll go take a shower while you clean up in here, right?"

"Yes, sir." Dean wiped a hand across his face as soon has his Dad's back was turned. They were in for a rough night.

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John rummaged through his dresser for some clean clothes and headed into the shower. He really wanted to let the hot water cascade down his tired body for a good twenty minutes, but it was awkward as he wasn't supposed to get his head or right arm wet. He sighed and rested his head against the wet tiles. Today, the burden he had chosen to carry left him so drained he couldn't even muster the energy to hold his own head up.

He had spent the better part of the day checking out a campsite in Missouri where people had gone missing after bear attacks. You know, the sort of bears that have opposable thumbs, walk on two legs, and are _not_ covered in fur.

The experienced marine had made good use of the daylight to track down the creature's lair, but unfortunately, it had been empty. Waiting for nightfall and the thing to return had not been the best choice, as it seemed to have night vision, which the hunter, of course, did not. He'd made a mental note to write that down in his journal for next time, but right now, he was simply screwed.

John toweled himself dry and pondered his choices. He felt worn-out and tired and he highly doubted that anything on TV at this ungodly hour would have what it took to keep him awake for another four hours. John checked his watch and saw it was just after midnight. His head was throbbing and his shoulder hurt and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep himself from drifting off once he was on the couch. He did, however, have the determination to work through the pain, provided he could just _do_ something. By the time he changed back into his clothes, he knew exactly what he would do.

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"OK, let's roll, Dean." John looked around the spotless kitchen, all evidence of their former activities well out of sight. The only thing that remained was the first aid kit on the table.

"Huh?" Dean turned around from where he was standing at the sink and looked over at his father in surprise.

"Get your stuff and let's go, kiddo." John was standing in the doorway to the kitchen and was giving his kid an expectant look. Dean had expected him to change into something more comfortable to sit and watch TV in, but instead, he had put on a new shirt and a different jacket and was clearly ready to go outside.

Dean stared at John, thoughts a whirl in his mind. He licked his lips, knowing that he was treading on thin ice here. "Really, sir… You shouldn't be driving with a head injury like that."

"I know. I might have a concussion. I heard you the first time." John reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved his keys. "That's why you'll be driving."

"Oh." Usually, Dean would do just about anything to get behind the wheel of the Impala, but he'd never actually driven her at night. He swallowed hard as he took the keys from his Dad's outstretched hand and followed him into the hall to put on his boots.

"I'll be right back," John said as he moved towards the staircase. "Now's the time if you gotta go..."

Dean rolled his eyes. Like he needed his Dad to remind him to go potty at _his_ age. On second thought, he reconsidered and dashed into the downstairs bathroom.

"Told you so," John muttered under his breath as he heard the tell-tale sign of the door close downstairs. He walked down the hallway and into the boys' room.

"Hey Sammy," he shook the boy awake gently, "I need you to wake up for me."

"What's going on?" Sam mumbled, clearly still half asleep.

"I'm gonna turn the lights on buddy, and then I need you to get dressed. I'm taking you boys with me." John crossed over to the room and switched on the lights, then headed over to the large dresser and reached for Sam's sleeping bag. "But it'll be okay, buddy. No need for you to worry, just do as you're told."

Sammy nodded and pulled a thick jumper over his shaggy head. He had a whole bunch of questions he was burning to ask, but he knew _that_ tone in his father's voice and that it was best to keep quiet and fall in line. "Where's Dean?" Sammy asked a moment later, instantly forgetting his resolution from a minute ago.

"He's waiting for us downstairs. You ready? Then let's go."

Dean looked up at his father wide-eyed when he saw him walking down the stairs, holding his baby brother by the hand. _Sammy!_ Dean thought in alarm. He'd been so caught up in the moment and distracted by the unusual turn of events he'd almost run out the door leaving his brother behind. Good thing someone else was doing the thinking for him!

"I've parked a little down the street so I wouldn't wake your favorite neighbor," John commented dryly as the trio made their way out the door and down the dark road.

"Uh-huh," Dean answered, feeling his heart beating wildly in his chest. It felt weird going out on a hunt like this, but this was what they were doing, right? Going out to hunt some nasty in the dead of night? Hell, a hunt was supposed to be _fun_ but the rush of adrenaline he usually felt hadn't set in just yet and, truth be told, the teen felt a bit scared.

John Winchester was _the_ hunter extraordinaire, but this time he'd gotten himself banged up pretty badly. Dean's worry increased as he realized they weren't walking as fast as usual, either. John was limping slightly and it was always unsettling for Dean to see his hero falter. He knew it was silly, and that his Dad wasn't _really_ larger than life, but there was a difference between _knowing it_ and _seeing it_ with his own eyes.

The kid opened the car door and slid onto the front seat. He unlocked the back door first, so John could arrange Sammy and his sleeping bag in the backseat.

With growing trepidation Dean then picked up the long, black weapon lying beside him on the equally black leather seats. He waited until John had sat down beside him before wordlessly handing him the crossbow. _What the hell had he gotten himself into tonight?_ He adjusted the seat so he could reach the gas pedal, did the same with the mirror, and turned the key in the ignition. The Impala started up with a roar from her powerful engine and Dean grabbed the steering wheel tight, tingling with anticipation.

Although he knew there was no other traffic, Dean did the three-way check anyway, just to prove he remembered and the engine purred as he headed toward the main road. "Where to?" Dean asked, glancing expectantly at his father.

"Gas station first. I need coffee. Keep your eyes on the road and don't get cocky." John turned around in his seat. "And you try to get some sleep, okay? No smart remarks from the peanut gallery about Dean's driving tonight either, got it?"

"Yes, sir." With a dramatic sigh, Sammy snuggled deeper into his sleeping bag and tried to get a few hours of shut-eye, since nobody seemed to be bothered to tell him what was going on.

Dean _still_ couldn't bring himself to ask where they were going and the anticipation was almost _killing_ him here. But it was always easier to get criticism than praise from John Winchester, and Dean was determined not to screw this up. Dad would let him know what and when he saw fit. Plain and simple.

Right next to the gas station was a cozy diner adjacent to a small lookout spot. "Park her over there," John said, indicating the place with his finger. The view from that point really was rather marvelous. Golden lights sparkled and dotted the expanse of darkness that comprised the downtown area of their small community. It was peaceful if not somewhat secluded too.

"What - you ashamed to be seen with me?" Dean quipped, knowing only too well that it wouldn't look good rolling into the gas station with him behind the wheel.

"Hey, _you_ are the wanted man, not me. Wouldn't want to blow your cover." Dean looked in shock at his father, at first not sure how to take the comment until he saw his dad grinning as he pulled the door handle to get out of the car. "Your brother still asleep?" The drive had taken a good ten minutes - long enough, but with Sam you could never be sure.

"Out like a light." Dean said before he looked over his shoulder. He could tell by his breathing pattern alone. Also, the soft snoring helped.

John returned with two paper cups, knocked on the car window on Dean's side and indicated with his head for the kid to come join him outside. They sat down on the hood of the Impala and stared down at the sleeping town. "So, what's the first rule about a hunt?" John asked before taking a sip of coffee.

"Always know what you're up against, sir."

"Uh-huh," John nodded approvingly. "In this case, we're talking about a Wendigo. They used to be humans, and they are very old. Legend has it, that they started out as Native Americans, or even miners, trappers, frontiersmen - and for whatever reason, be it snow, badlands, bad luck, you name it - at some point, they all resorted to cannibalism. But not just once, to stay alive, mind you. They developed a taste for human flesh and from then on would eat nothing else. Some native tribes believe that by eating your enemy's heart you gain his power."

Dean wrinkled his nose as he cupped his hands around his hot cocoa and listened to John's gruesome tale.

"Anyway," John continued after taking another swig of his coffee, "they developed super-human qualities, which is why they are very hard to kill."

"Even for you, huh?" Dean interrupted. "Those clawmarks looked nasty."

"Even for me, yeah," John smiled and nudged Dean with his good shoulder. "Guns don't do much more than piss 'em off. So what you need to take 'em down is fire. But they're very smart, so it's basically impossible to lure them into a trap. They are also fast, so you're gonna want to keep as much distance between you and your prey as you can. Hence the crossbow. I wanted to attach it to a tree long enough so I could set fire to the thing. Even thought of attaching a firecracker to the second arrow to set it on fire in that way."

"Sweet!" Dean exclaimed, grinning.

"Creative, yes. Smart - not so much." John corrected with a sigh. "All it did was piss the thing off, which is when it came at me. I barely managed to get away from it in time before it took my arm off."

By now Dean was hanging on to his every word. "So what's the plan now, sir?"

John looked out over the little town of Fullerton, Missouri. "The thing is - once an animal, any animal, is wounded - they become unpredictable. Which is understandable. So it's important that we take it down before it does something rash. Usually they prey on campers and their attacks are chalked up as bear attacks."

Dean nodded at the additional information, but was really keen on hearing the interesting bit - what would _his_ role be in all this? He tried hard not to look too overeager, though. It would do no good to let Dad think he was being reckless. "Why not just take it down with a flare gun?"

John almost dropped his coffee cup in surprise and turned to face Dean. "Sonofabitch!" The older man shook his head and laughed. "You know what - that's the smartest thing I've heard today. Why didn't I think of that?" He reached out and ruffled Dean's hair. "You're a natural hunter, you know that?"

Dean's cheeks blushed after John's praise, but he could hardly contain the energy that was now bubbling inside him. This was what a hunt should feel like - spending time with his Dad, learning new tricks of the trade, thinking outside the box - Dean could just feel that he was starting to get his mojo back.

John smiled in satisfaction at the grin on his son's face. He hated, absolutely _hated_ that he had to drag his kids along for this, but there was no other option. The Wendigo was hurt and in order to get its strength back up it would most likely go out and feed. Maybe once, maybe twice - either way, it was now John's responsibility because he was the one who'd injured it. He couldn't just sit on his hands and not care.

He knew that Dean was old enough to hold his own, but the fact that he was not going to be on his A-game - what with his injured arm and beat up head - made his stomach churn. Add to that the mere fact that he had to drag his baby along as well. Leaving him alone in the house after the Shtriga incident was clearly out of the question, but Stevie lived a two hours' drive away, and in the opposite direction at that so he was no good as either hunting partner or babysitter.

He was jerked out of his thoughts as Dean took the empty coffee cup from his hands and bounced over to the trashcan. John gave a chuckle. The kid was always so reserved, but when he thought nobody was looking he could be as goofy as a puppy. Even at this dismal hour, the kid was nearly exploding with energy and John remembered why he had to keep fighting. Although there was no sign of the sun, John could clearly see hope on the horizon.

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"Well, I guess that's what you'd call a crispy critter, heh heh," Dean chuckled as he watched the corpse of the massive Wendigo burn.

"Always with the wisecracks," John chided softly as he patted Dean's back and let his hand rest on the kid's shoulders. Still, he couldn't quite contain a smile and cocked his eyebrow at his son. "So, how're you feeling about this?"

Dean straightened up a little and sighed. "Good, I guess. I mean, I know I had you scared there for a bit, but it's all good now, right?"

"I guess so," John agreed as he moved his hand up and briefly massaged the back of Dean's head. "I'd be more concerned if you could do this stuff _without_ getting a bit scared now and then. The important thing is that you don't allow yourself to get distracted for too long and snap out of it if you freeze up. Which you did." _Just in time_, John added in his head. Seeing Dean in action filled him with pride and trepidation.

The hunt had gone astonishingly smooth. John had directed Dean back to the spot where he had left the woods in order to find his way back to the main road and his car. It had been quite the hike and he was glad the beast hadn't followed his scent. This time they would be faster as he was more familiar with the terrain. The Wendigo was hibernating in an abandoned mine shaft, and although the road that led up to it was deserted, too, it was still intact enough to drive up pretty close.

They parked the Impala a safe distance away and John turned in his seat to shake Sam awake. While the boy reached for his sneakers, John gave the boys his orders and they set off as quietly as they could, going deeper into the woods until they found the clearing. The forest was eerily quiet, as if even the owls knew that nothing good was going to happen in this place. The aftermath of John's fight with the Wendigo was plain to see. There were scuff-marks on the ground, large puddles of blood, and a convenient trail of blood drops that lead them straight to the injured beast. While it was true that an arrow couldn't kill it, it _had_ lost a significant amount of blood, thus slowing it down. Fortunately, instead of going for a snack it had opted for a nap and, just like Sammy, it needed a few minutes to get re-oriented after it's rude awakening. It was precisely that drowsiness that led to its demise.

John figured it had been able to smell them and he held on tightly to Sam's small hand as they ran past the Wendigo's line of vision in the hopes of drawing it out from inside the mine. As soon as it stuck its ugly head outside to give chase, Dean moved in from behind. The wind was blowing in his favor and he aimed the flare gun and boldly shot it in the center of its back.

The Wendigo lit up like a Christmas tree and its howls of pain were so terrifying, they almost had Dean frozen to the spot with fear. John's heart skipped a beat as the flaming thing moved towards his son, but Dean woke from his daze and ran for his life just in time. The creature stumbled and fell to its knees and continued to roar in a bloodcurdling fashion until it completely erupted into flames. Sammy pressed himself against John, who protectively wrapped his arms around him.

Ere long, they were joined by Dean, who'd circled around the mine and was quite out of breath when the small family was finally united again. Apart from letting his nerves distract him for a moment, Dean had followed John's directions to a T, always staying close and doing exactly as he'd been told. The Winchesters had won this round, and it was about time, too, as they could all do with some good news.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

So here they were. Watching and waiting while the Wendigo slowly turned into cinders. John ordered Sammy to go get some sleep and he had readily crawled back inside his sleeping bag after they'd fetched the Impala and parked her a little closer, now that they no longer had to worry about waking monsters with her powerful sound.

"You know you and I are gonna be here for a while, right, kiddo?" John had ushered Dean back outside the car so at least one of them would get some sleep tonight. Seeing the unspoken question in the kid's eyes he continued, "We can't just leave a bonfire burning and walk away so the whole forest can catch on fire, right? I know it's a bit risky - the rangers could show up or something, so always make sure you can make a quick getaway, okay? Collect your gear, get yourselves organized and only _then_ sit back and watch the show. Got it?"

"Oh yeah, that makes sense." As always, there _was_ a method behind John's madness, and Dean knew he still had a lot to learn.

"So, anything you wanna talk about, now that you and me are here?"

"Uh, not really," Dean answered with a shrug.

"You sure? Because it seems to me like you were trying to get my attention with the possum stunt the other day, and I'm not quite sure I've totally figured out why."

Dean remained uncharacteristically quiet, not sure how to breach this particular subject. Talking to John was a lot harder than talking to Sammy.

"You thought I was putting Mrs. D's word above your own. I didn't mean for it to seem that way, but I get that. She was getting you and Sammy into all sorts of trouble and you were mad. Understandable. I still think your reaction was a bit excessive though, even for a 'wild child' like you." John noted with amusement the way Dean scrunched up his face at once again hearing the old woman's words. He continued in a more serious fashion. "Am I missing something? Is there more to this story?"

Dean sighed, not 100% sure himself how to explain what he was feeling, or even fully understanding it himself.

"Listen, Dean - I know you're mad at me. Because with our lifestyle, I can't always give you boys the life you deserve. And sometimes I forget that you're still very young, and maybe I expect a bit too much." John could feel Dean bristle at that, and quickly amended, "And that's not _your_ fault, Dean. It's mine."

John just let that statement hang in the air for a bit. It didn't happen often that the great John Winchester admitted he was wrong. Damned, he _knew_ he could be one stubborn sonofabitch and that when it came to hunting he did have a single-tracked mind. His kids often ended up with the short end of the stick. It wasn't pretty, but it was the truth.

"And forgetting about the promise I'd made you regarding the crossbow-training clearly really pissed you off. I'm sorry about that."

"Yeah, it did. I was mad about that. Well, maybe not just mad. Disappointed, and I didn't even know why." Dean's thoughts wandered back to the shouting match he'd had with John and how abysmally that had ended for him. Dean wasn't as sensitive as Sam, but he knew only too well what shame felt like and how hard it was not to be able to take back words that were said in anger. Dad seemed willing to talk now, and he really did appreciate the chance to clear the air between them.

"What do you mean?" John asked patiently, silently wondering how it was easier for both of them to open up after a hunt when all they'd done in their own kitchen was butt heads and let their tempers fly.

"Well," Dean started slowly. "You always mean well, Dad. I know that. But…" Dean hugged himself, trying to find the safe way to tell his dad what he was feeling without hurting him in return. He sighed. "I just know not to get my hopes up too high, but then I go and do it anyway and something just about always happens to change our plans." Dean shook his head. "I really should know better by now. It's stupid. Really. You have a really important job. Saving people is a priority. It's the most important thing in the world. I know that. I shouldn't get mad about it."

John could only watch the sparkling flames consume the vanquished creature as the depth of Dean's burdens became apparent. He didn't know where to begin to respond. This was bigger than he knew how to handle without that special touch Mary always had to make Dean feel heard and as valued as he always was.

"It's an important mission and I have to make things easier for you so you can do it without having to worry about Sammy and me. And pranks like the one I pulled on Mrs. Donnelly didn't making things easier. You need to be able to trust me and help you take care of things at home and I have to make sure Sammy and I stay under the radar while you're away and I just don't know what I was thinking, Dad. I'm really sorry." Dean was in full confession mode now and looked over at his father in an attempt to show him he really was able to be the support John needed. "I can do it, Dad."

"Do what, Dean?"

"Take care of Sammy. Take care of things at home. I shouldn't have stayed up all night to play some dumb game. I shouldn't have skipped school. I should have had those dishes washed. I was going to. I swear. I would have had the laundry done too, but…"

"Dean."

"...I guess I was too busy thinking about getting back at her…"

"Dean." John repeated his son's name, hoping to get his attention this time.

"...she just made me so mad talking about mom like that and Sammy and…"

"Dean!" John reached out and shook the kid's arm.

"What?"

"Stop, son." He turned them to face each other and placed his good arm on Dean's shoulder.

Dean looked at his father in confusion, not quite sure what the problem was now.

"You're taking things out on Mrs. Donnelly and beating yourself up," John chuckled, "when you really want to take them out on me."

"No, Dad!" Dean furrowed his brow, thinking hard.

"It's ok."

"But I don't! It was her, I swear!" Right now, it felt so much easier being mad at the old crone next door than his dad, who was standing right here in the flesh.

"Maybe part of it, sure. But not all of it." John knew Dean didn't like talking about his feelings, and with the way he usually muddled things up - barking orders instead of talking - he knew who was to blame for that. "This has been building in you for awhile. I can see that."

Dean bit his lip as he took his turn studying the dancing flames.

"You're a kid and you shouldn't have to think twice about playing a game. You certainly shouldn't be making housework a priority. And you damn well shouldn't go around thinking there is anything more important than you and Sammy. I don't care what my job is."

Dean glanced quickly at his dad then continued to watch the fire, the awkward silence making him wish he could disappear.

"You know your mother? She was good at this."

"What?"

"Putting you at the center of her world. Making you feel safe, secure, protected."

"I feel safe with you, Dad."

"Yeah, it's not quite the same, son. You should be at home being a kid. Not out here hunting down killers with me." John snorted. "Neither one of us should be out here hunting down killers."

John blew a breath and looked over at his boy. "But this is how it is, son. It's not what I would have chosen for either of us, but it's important. And the sacrifices we make are important too. I have to do a better job at remembering you're not me. You aren't going to do things the way I do all the time, and that's ok. But I'm getting you ready, Dean. You and Sammy. I need you to be ready to protect yourselves if you have to." John held back saying any more. This was so much more than self-preservation and he knew that, but the boys weren't ready for that yet.

He was going to have to figure out how to balance his need to prepare them for their need to be the kids they were. It was going to be a constant battle, but it looked like they had finally called a truce to this one. Tracking down the yellow-eyed demon was John's priority right now. The terrors he had seen that night in Lawrence would haunt him all his life, but they had made him a hunter, and a damned good one at that. Since then, he had seen - and killed- many more monsters he hadn't even known existed, but the one that really mattered eluded him still. He collected all his intel and insights in his journal and he knew there would come a day when he would pass on his legacy to his boys. But not for a long time. The kids still had to grow up before they were ready for that kind of responsibility.

OoO oOo OoO oOo

"Say Dad?" Dean asked after some time had passed and the fire had begun to die down.

"Yeah?"

"Can we stop at the diner on our way home for breakfast?"

John gave a hearty laugh. "Please don't tell me this smell reminds you of my cooking?"

"Now that you mention it, it _does_ remind me of that casserole you made for - ah, Dad!" Dean yelled as he soon found himself in an iron headlock he knew he had no chance escaping. He giggled and patted his Dad's arm twice, letting him know he was tapping out. When he came back up for air, he shook himself like a dog and continued unperturbed. "No, but the sign by the diner said they had homemade pie?"

"Is that so?" John mused. How the kid could constantly think of food was beside him, but that was Dean alright.

"Oh yeah, homemade pie." Dean stared into the fire with a longing look on his face. "Love me some pie."

"Sure thing, son," John was fast to agree. "After all I've put you through tonight you've definitely earned yourself some pie." He wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders as they stood side by side, waiting for the fire to burn down.

The End. (For realsies this time)


End file.
